


Kingdom Up for Sale

by ProfessorSpork



Category: Glee
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Related, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Gen, Healing, If you only read one work by me, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scene, Self-Discovery, Teen Angst, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSpork/pseuds/ProfessorSpork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never really expected to be friends. She owed him, and he needed her. But it just so happened that maybe she needed him, too. </p><p>Sam and Quinn, from Comeback to Rumours.  Fabrevans friendship, canon Fuinn, very vague hintings at potential Faberry if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blame it on the Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> I should have posted this here ages ago, but I was... well, lazy. But I've been working on the sequel for a while now, which means posting this on a site I actually like.
> 
> So, once upon a time—and by once upon a time I mean right after Rumours came out—I set out to write a fic about Quinn helping Sam babysit, because I thought that dynamic would be really interesting to explore. Somehow, this evolved into a massive exploration of all of Quinn's issues that I spent all of the summer of 2011 writing. I have no regrets.
> 
> Trigger warning for discussion of disordered eating.
> 
> The title is a lyric from Gold Dust Woman, off the Rumours LP, because—well. Relevant.

"… As Christians, we have a duty to God and to one another," Reverend Andrews concludes, "and I hope we will all come together as a community to help the Evans family through this difficult time."

Sam stares at the floor, grinding his teeth.

It's just not freaking  _fair._ It's not fair, and he can see Quinn moving towards him out of the corner of his eye as the rest of the congregation gets up to leave, and he can't think of worse torture than this.

_He_ broke up with  _her._ Isn't that supposed to mean that he's the one who gets to keep his dignity?

He gets up to meet her halfway, because his parents still don't know why they broke up, and because whatever it is Quinn's after, he doesn't think he wants his kid brother and sister to hear.

"Anything you have to say, just save it, okay?" he mutters, drawing her aside. "You've got ammo against me, and no good reason not to use it, and fine. Do whatever you want. But not here."

She actually looks hurt by that for a second, drawing her hymnal up to her chest like a shield. That kind of pisses him off, because she has no business being upset by how he treats her now, but before he can make a comment her neutral mask is back in place.

"I was just going to ask," she says slowly, voice barely above a whisper, "if there's anything I can do to help."

"I don't need anything from you, Quinn." He doesn't mean for it to come out quite so sharp, but whatever, he's allowed to be bitter. She blinks back a flinch, knuckles turning white against the book in her hands.

"I deserved that," she admits, voice eerily calm. He's familiar with that tone; it sets his teeth on edge. "But seriously, I'm not taking no for an answer. Tell me how I can help."

"You wanna help? Don't tell anyone. My rep's damaged enough as it is."

The corner of her lip twitches in the ghost of an understanding smirk. "I can do that."

And that's that.

Or, it should have been.

* * *

It's just that she feels responsible somehow.

She knows, objectively, that that can't possibly be true, but… in the long run, she's done so many things to ruin Sam's life that figuring out what is and is not her fault barely seems worth the effort.

So yeah, maybe she decides to sort of keep an eye on him. And if it feels a little unfaithful to be thinking about Sam so much when she's with Finn now—or she's trying to be—well, it's not like the fact that she's a terrible person is news.

Least of all to herself.

* * *

There was a time, not too long ago, when it felt like his every waking moment was dedicated to figuring out the mystery of Quinn Fabray.

He's been good at not thinking about her, lately. Getting kicked out of your house goes a long way towards putting your priorities in order, and also Santana's a  _really_ good kisser. But thinking about Quinn is kind of like Inception, and once he gets started it's impossible to stop.

It just sucks, because he has all these random puzzle pieces—tiny, stupid things that he knows about her—and no idea what to  _do_ with them all. He doesn't have a clue what the finished picture is supposed to look like.

Still, he keeps trying.

He knows that sometimes Keep Holding On gets stuck in her head, but whenever she catches herself humming it she gets in a really pissy mood. That she secretly loves baseball, but  _hates_ the Cleveland Indians. That on days when she was stressed, she'd get really intense about her ponytail being completely straight, and would compulsively untie and retie it between classes.

He knows she has calluses on the tips of her fingers, because the first time he taught her chord progressions she never winced, not once, and he uses steel strings on his guitar. Maybe that's from cheerleading or something; he's hardly an expert. (Or maybe her hands are exactly as soft as they look, and she just doesn't believe in showing signs of weakness.)

He knows there's a super sensitive spot on her neck guaranteed to make her squirm, but that it's a gamble to go there—sometimes it made her melt against him, weak in the knees, and sometimes it made her bolt upright and jump halfway across the couch. He doesn't think he'll ever understand that—why she pushes away the things that make her feel good.

He doesn't think he'll ever understand her, period.

"We're going to Berry's party on Saturday night," Santana informs him, and to be honest he'd kind of forgotten she was there. "So if your inner nerd is unleashed with alcohol and you're going to, like, start quoting Star Trek or something, I really need you to warn me now so I can bring enough duct tape to cover up that immense rift in the space/time continuum you call a mouth."

"Sure, okay, cool," he mutters on autopilot, and starts walking away.

"Hey—where are you going? It's lunchtime. I needs to get my pudding cup on, and the lunch ladies like you better than me."

"I, uh, I can't. I have to talk to Mr. Miller about getting extra credit in Chem."

(And that's another thing he knows about Quinn—that her occasional tendency to skip meals had nothing to do with Coach Sylvester's crazy Cheerios diet. That's something about her he  _does_ understand, but… whatever, it's not important. He's just being stupid.)

* * *

Somehow, she still manages to catch him by surprise.

"You've stopped eating."

"Hey to you too, Quinn," he mumbles, angling his body away from her and moving to close his locker. Her arm shoots out to keep him from doing so, open palm smacking against the metal with a resounding clang that echoes down the hallway.

(He didn't even last a week. How hard is it to avoid someone for five days?)

"You're not exactly subtle about it. You haven't gone to lunch period in at least two weeks. Finn says you're in the weight room."

"I can't talk right now; I'm gonna be late for class."

"You think I don't get it?" she hisses, hazel eyes boring right into him. "Believe me, I get it. Your life is going to shit and there isn't a single thing you can control and hey, groceries for the family are expensive enough without the big football player eating his kid siblings' snacks. Rationalize it however you want, that doesn't change what this is. I  _get_ it. I've been there. But you can't do it this way. They need you. You've got to take care of yourself."

"I'm  _fine._ "

"You're not."

He clenches a fist, fighting the overwhelming urge to punch her in the face, because seriously:  _fuck Quinn._  She was supposed to be the one who understood this, who wouldn't give him shit about—

A small hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, and he deflates.

"Why do you even  _care_?" he mutters, torn between curiosity and a serious need to get away.

"Don't be an idiot," she says harshly, and then takes a deep breath. "Look, I'm not gonna force you to hold hands and sing kumbaya about it in glee club. I'm asking you to be a man about this. Get responsible, and get responsible  _now._ "

"It's not that easy."

Her gaze softens for the briefest of moments. "I know," she murmurs, "but you're gonna do it anyway." And then she's gone.

It's not exactly the most politically correct motivational speech he's ever heard, but it's Quinn, so.

The next time he opens his locker, a still-unused gift certificate to Breadstix flutters out.

* * *

The thing about guilt is that once you've started feeling it, it doesn't really go away.

As she watches Finn and Rachel get up and give the glee club a lecture on  _commitment_ , of all things, Quinn realizes that jealousy is no different.

It physically hurts her, watching them. They're sickening. They aren't even doing anything—as far as she knows (and she's made it her business to know), they're barely even speaking to each other these days—and they're  _still_ sickening. Finn hovering like an oversized teddy bear, hanging on her every word, while Rachel runs her mouth about who even knows what… Christ. It instantly takes Quinn right back to last year, and when Mr. Schuester dismisses them for the day, she can't get out of there fast enough.

Apparently, the universe is as out to get her has ever, because on her way out she runs straight into Jacob Ben Israel.

"Quinn Fabray! Fancy meeting you here. Word on the street is, you're a scoop waiting to happen."

"Oh  _do_ tell," she spits, shoving past him to get to her locker. He follows her like some kind of demented puppy dog.

"Rumor has it you're going to be making an appearance at Rachel Berry's shindig this weekend. Care to comment on your fall from social grace? Will your impending return to that dark mistress sangria also lead to a repeat round of the horizontal hora with our resident Jewish chick-magnet-turned-chubby-chaser, because—"

She whirls on him so fast he goes cross-eyed.

"…because if it's Semites that get you hot, I can help with that," he concludes weakly, cowering away from the hand hovering two inches from his face.

"I'd rather  _die,_ " she says, but all she can hear is Finn saying  _Sometimes I wish you were more like Rachel. She cares about me. She cares about my feelings. She sticks up for me. She sticks up for the both of us. She gave Jacob a pair of her underpants to stop him writing the story about you_ , and Sam's face just  _won't_ get out of her head, and all of a sudden she hears herself saying, "We need to talk."

(She doesn't even know. Just… okay? Stop.)

* * *

Rachel's party is exactly as excruciating as Quinn anticipated it would be.

Alcohol does absolutely nothing to stem the crippling awkwardness of it all, no matter how much of it she drinks. And either way, her sobriety levels aren't going to change the fact that she can't get anywhere near Finn, because they're trying to avoid arousing suspicion; won't change the fact that Puck's wearing  _Lauren Zizes'_ glasses, dancing around her like she's some kind of pagan statue he's worshiping; that Rachel's bouncing around like a drugged out hobbit on stage with Kurt's Dalton man candy, or that Sam and Santana are making out in the corner, and no matter how badly she wants to, Quinn just can't stop staring.

And these are supposed to be the times she'll look back on fondly.

* * *

Before church the next morning, Quinn sidles next to him and slips a wad of cash into his hand.

"Quinn, what the hell—" Sam starts, before checking himself. He's still super hung over from last night, but talking about hell in church just doesn't seem like a good plan. "What do you think you're  _doing_?"

"I hocked your ring."

"What?"

"Your ring. The one you gave me. I… anyway, the money's yours." She doesn't seem like she's much in the mood for talking, which: he is all over that, but if she thinks she can just drop this on him and walk away, she has another thing coming.

"How did you…?"

"Look, we both know you need the money, so forget it, okay? I figured that just giving the stupid thing back to you would send the wrong message, so I talked to Jacob Ben Israel. He asked me some extremely disturbing questions about what I was doing with my fingers while I was wearing it which I  _really_  don't want to repeat in church—or  _ever_ —and when I threatened to break his nose he gave me a hundred fifty bucks to take it off my hands."

"… It was  _costume jewelry_. It only cost, like, eight dollars. Tops."

"Then it's a good thing I did things my way."

She looks even more like hell than he does, is the thing. And, like. Even though there's bright light coming in through the stained glass windows, she keeps eye contact with him anyway. It must hurt like a bitch.

He stumbles forward to shove the cash back into her hands. "Quinn, I can't take this."

"Are you  _stupid?_ That's like a week's worth of groceries!" she insists. When his eyes flash dangerously, she sighs. "Look, I'm just trying to do the right thing here. This isn't about pity, Sam, it's…" she trails off.  _It's an apology._

He doesn't think he's ready to accept one, is the thing.

* * *

She feels like  _shit._

She doesn't know why she's surprised; the last time she was as drunk as she got last night, she ended up impregnated. But in a way, being hung over in church feels exactly like the divine retribution she's had coming to her for a while now, and—well. Reverend Andrews' sermon is all about forgiveness, and it just feels kind of like a sign.

And maybe, if Sam's listening, things might finally start to go her way.

* * *

Sam finds her, after.

"Look. About what you said… last week."

"Yeah?"

"I got a job, delivering pizzas. I start Wednesday. Only Dad's working at the Circle K right now, but he's on the late night shift so he can job hunt during the day, and Mom…" he trails off, unsure why he's suddenly explaining all of this to her. "Anyway, Stevie and Stacey will need someone to look after them."

"Sure."

"I can't promise you, like, a lot, but anything I make in tips can—"

"I don't want your money, Sam."

"And I don't need your charity."

She looks at him with steely resolve. "It's a favor for a friend," she insists, and only Quinn Fabray could make that sentence sound so… unfriendly.

"We're not f—" he starts, but then he clamps his mouth shut and inhales deeply through his nose. Neither of them are in a position to turn down a friend at the moment. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They're both still too wrecked to be able to discuss it with any more detail, but it's the closest they've been to solid ground since they were dating.

She'll take what she can get.


	2. Mending Fences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for flirtation with disordered eating.

She isn't sure what she was expecting to feel when she walked into the motel room Sam now calls home, but it wasn't  _rage_.

It's just… she'd been to the Evans house. It hadn't been big, but it had been cozy and nice and a  _home._ They've clearly tried to make the motel room the same, but it's not, at all, and even as it breaks her heart it's not sadness that she's feeling—it's indignation. These are  _good people,_ and all of a sudden all she wants to do is burn down the world for doing this to them.

Her train of thought is derailed by a tiny blonde body launching itself at her and attaching to her legs.

"Quinn!"

"Hey, Stacey."

" _Hi!_ It's been  _ages._ And you said you'd teach me how to French braid and we never did and then Sammy said you weren't his girlfriend anymore."

"I'm not," Quinn affirms mildly, and Stacey frowns.

"But—"

"But I never forgot about the braids." She grins, and leans in like she has a secret. "What do you think—is Sam's hair long enough that we can practice on him?"

"Hey!" Sam protests.

And maybe, just maybe, she can do this.

(Because that's the plan. Every day, after school, right here. Sam starts his job on Wednesday, and then she's on her own with them. She has to make sure she's not the bad guy long before that happens.

She'll never forget that she is, but hopefully, if she's lucky, they will.)

* * *

It's awkward, at first, but powering through uncomfortable moments is something of a Fabray specialty, and it's not long before Quinn's doing Stacey's nails on the floor while Sam and Stevie play some incredibly complicated board game called Race for the Galaxy. Quinn had tried to follow along, at first, but it appears to be all about interstellar real estate and she just can't fathom the appeal on  _any_ level.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah, Stace?"

"Why did you and Sam break up?"

Her eyes immediately flicker to Sam's, and they trade an alarmed look.

"We… decided we were better off as friends," Sam finally says, and Quinn's completely unprepared for how guilty that makes her feel.

"Did you fall out of love?"

Quinn concentrates hard on applying a topcoat to Stacey's fingers, giving herself time to think. How do you explain to a girl who still believes in Disney princess true love that you cheated on her brother, with whom you were never really in love to begin with?

"It's like… it's like Pocahontas. She and John Smith were really good for each other, but in the end she marries John Rolfe."

"Sam says sequels don't count, though," Stacey says, scrunching her nose in distaste, and Quinn suppresses a smile.

"But it's not made up; that's what actually happened to the real Pocahontas."

Her eyes go wide. "There was a  _real_ Pocahontas?"

"Of course there was! Haven't you learned about her in school?"

Stacey shakes her head.

"Stevie?"

"Didn't she invent corn?"

"Uh, first of all that was Squanto, and secondly he didn't  _invent_ corn, he just showed the Pilgrims how to plant it."

"I thought Squanto helped Lewis and Clark cross America?"

"That was Sacagawea."

"Really? But she's a  _girl_!"

"Hey," Sam reprimands, "don't say stuff like that. It's un-feminist."

"What's a feminist?" Stevie asks, cocking his head to the side.

"They're ladies who yell at boys for being jerks," Stacey says loftily, blowing on her fingers to dry her nail polish.

"I'm not a lady!  _Sam!_ "

"Dudes can be feminists too, Half-Pint. It just means that you treat everyone like you're supposed to."

"Like the Golden Rule?"

"Yeah."

Quinn smiles brokenly, doing her best to enjoy the moment and ignore the building pressure in her chest. (It's just that it hurts. Being reminded of what a family's supposed to look like, when she's had so many chances at one and has screwed it up or given it away every single time.)

* * *

Dinner is simple milk and cereal, which gives Quinn an entirely different kind of heartache. She tries to beg off, planning to have a late supper when she gets home, but then Sam pulls the  _Yeah, I'm not hungry either_  card and it sucks, knowing that the only way to get him to eat is if she does. They stare each other down across the coffee table, matching each other bite for bite, and it's just…

The sad thing is that she knows it's normal, to be this fucked up.

* * *

He waits until Stevie and Stacey are asleep before he mentions anything about it.

"Don't pull that stunt again. With the cereal. That was messed up."

She looks him right in the eye. "No, what's messed up is the fact that you're still trying to skip meals when you promised me you'd cut that out."

"I didn't promise you anything, Quinn—you assaulted me in the hallway, shoved your opinion down my throat and walked away."

"It's not an  _opinion,_ it's—"

"God, just shut UP!" he growls, doing his best to keep his voice down. "You don't understand. You don't have a clue what this feels like. The pressure I'm under."

She's silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, she says, "I know what it's like to get kicked out of your house, Sam."

… and now he feels like a total jerk. But the two situations are apples and oranges, and it's not fair for her to try and equate them.

"I know you do. Sorry. I know. But not like me."

She just nods.

"You're right. Not like you. At least you all have each other," she murmurs, eyes flickering to Stevie and Stacey, asleep on the fold-out couch. "When my parents found out about… My dad gave me an hour. One hour, to pack up a life."

"What did you take with you?" he asks, not daring so much as a glance at his guitar, propped up in the corner. He thinks he can trust her—he knows she wants him to—but the first rule of being near Quinn Fabray is  _show no weakness,_ and he knows she'll pick up on it in a heartbeat.

She starts worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, and he relaxes a little. It means she's  _trying_. It's one of her few tells, actually—being honest is so contrary to Quinn's nature that she tries to bite back the words until literally the last moment.

"You know," she finally says, "That sucked worst of all. There wasn't really anything to take."

"Harsh," he whispers, which is the understatement of the century, but really—what else is there to say?

"Yeah…" she trails off, before running a hand up and down her forearm. "I've missed you, Sam," she mumbles.

It cost her something to say that, and he smiles in appreciation. "Yeah. You want me to walk you to your car?"

"In a sec. But I just need a minute to…"

"Okay."

* * *

True to his word, he escorts her out to the parking lot five minutes later, hands shoved deeply in his pockets. She can't get over the lingering feeling that some things have been left unsaid, however, and so she pauses at her door, fumbling uselessly with her key ring.

"So… is this working, so far?"

He can't bring himself to stop staring at his shoes. "I… yeah. I think so."

"We probably shouldn't talk to each other in school, at least for a while."

"Why? Because Finn will think you're cheating on him?"

She winces, but:  _deserved that._ "No, because I don't want Santana to  _kill_ me. When Mercedes went out with Puck, I had to warn her so that she knew to be on the lookout before she got murdered."

Sam looks up, interested. "Mercedes went out with Puck?"

"For, like, five seconds. Not that that stopped Santana from going after her, which is all sorts of hilarious because Santana wasn't even really _with_ Puck by then. She broke up with him because of his credit score."

Sam sucks in a breath, and— _oh._

She's never really been the kind of person to put her foot in her mouth, because her policy has always been to withhold her words as long as possible. Distract, deflect, defend—that's how you keep power. She's put herself in plenty of corners and burned a lot of bridges by saying too little, but saying too  _much?_ She has absolutely no idea how to deal with this.

"Sam, I…"

"I think the words you're looking for are  _I'm sorry._ "

She stiffens. "What are you, my life coach, now?"

She regrets the words as soon as they're out of her mouth, their hypocrisy repulsive even to her, but it barely seems to phase him.

"No, I just thought we were trying to be friends."

If it were anyone else, it would have sounded snide or passive-aggressive, but it's Sam, so it just sounds honest. (She always forgets how simple things are, in Sam's world. You make a promise and you keep it. She's not sure she'll ever get used to that, and part of her is terrified of being taken at her word.)

"…Sorry."

"S'cool," he shrugs, and she believes him. After a moment, he ventures, "So, like… what happened?"

"Mercedes realized that Puck's an asshole and she can do way better?"

"No, I mean, with Santana."

"Oh. They… sang a song about it in glee club."

" _Seriously_?" Sam asks, cracking up.

Quinn can't help but smile in response. "Seriously. They did The Boy Is Mine."

It isn't even that funny, in the grand scheme of things, but it has the two of them in hysterics for a good two minutes.

* * *

The second night… well, things don't go quite according to plan.

It's fine for the first few hours. There's homework to be done and an intense game of Egyptian Ratscrew to be played. But then the kids get restless, and…

"Sammy, we're  _bored._ "

… and then that happens.

"Want me to sing to you? Hey; since Quinn is here, we can even do duets!" Beaming, he goes to grab his guitar. "What do you think, Quinn? Any requests? You like Madonna, right?"

Quinn suddenly flashes back to another night of babysitting, and the words  _want to see a real live music video,_ and the only thing more overwhelming than the sudden tidal wave of anxiety that crashes through her veins is her intense need to be elsewhere. She knows she says "I don't feel well" as she gets up and practically flees to the bathroom, but she can barely hear it over the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears.

She locks the door behind her and grips the sink hard to keep her hands from shaking, staring blankly at herself in the mirror. It feels like there's a vacuum in her chest where her heart should be, pulling in and in and in like a black hole, knocking the wind out of her and squeezing her to death.

_This is a panic attack,_ she thinks, but knowing it doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

"Quinn?" Sam murmurs, knocking on the door.

"I'm fine."

"I don't believe you," he says simply, and part of her  _hates_ him for that.

Bottling everything for the moment, she presses her mouth into a firm, thin line and opens the door a few inches. She has to lean against the jamb to keep herself steady, but what matters is that she doesn't break his gaze, exhaling slowly through her nose to keep from hyperventilating. "See? Fine."

"You say that, but… Quinn, it's like your eyes are screaming at me."

_Fuck you._ "I just need a second," she says through gritted teeth, and then closes the door in his face and locks it again.

Secure as she's going to be, she sinks to the floor; it feels like an unforgivable display of weakness, but there's no one here to judge her but her, and that's nothing she's not used to.

She can't  _breathe._

She used to be so good at this. At keeping her shit together. It was practically rule one in the Fabray household: fake it 'til you make it. Maintain composure at all costs. Now it's all she can do to press her forehead against the cool tile of Sam's bathroom floor and try not to feel like she's having a heart attack, and nothing even  _happened._ It's just a stupid duet.

She loses track of how long she lays there, struggling for air.

Another knock. "…Quinn?"

"One second," she croaks, before hesitantly trying to get up. She's unsteady on her feet, but she feels sort of like a human being again, and that's just going to have to do.

She squeezes her eyes shut, squares her shoulders, and opens the door, strolling right past Sam into the living room.

"Sorry, guys," she says in a falsely chipper voice, smile plastered on her face. "What do you want to hear us sing?"

"A Whole New World!" Stacey requests happily, and Quinn ignores the probing look Sam shoots at her.

And really, she shouldn't be surprised that the guy who once described a Justin Bieber song as  _a hugely emotional anthem that sums up our generation_ knows the chords to, like, every single Disney song ever recorded.

* * *

An hour later, Sam's parents come home to find their eldest son singing and dancing around the motel room with his guitar, encouraging his siblings to get down to business to defeat the Huns while his ex-girlfriend occasionally chimes in to tell him to be a man.

"You call this calming them down for bed?" Mrs. Evans finally says in a weak voice, and the two teens freeze in place.

"Mom! Dad! We were just—"

"—they weren't tired, and we thought it might help to—"

"—didn't mean for it to go on this long, guess we just got distracted—"

"—but they're all washed up and ready for bed, so—"

"—how was job hunting?"

"Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Lots of lures out, no bites yet. How are you doing, Quinn?" Mr. Evans asks awkwardly, and she just can't take his well-meaning attempts at being civil to the bitch who cheated on his son. She just can't.

"I'm fine, but I'm actually—Mom probably expected me home a while ago, so I'm just gonna… go. Thank you for having me." She says the last part because she was raised a certain way and it's just  _reflex,_ and winces at how it sounds. "Um. Goodnight."

She's halfway to her car when Sam catches up to her.

"Jeez, Quinn, slow down! Why are you running away?"

"I'm not running away, I'm just leaving. Everything's fine."

"Look, about what happened earlier…"

She walks a little faster. "It's nothing."

"It's not. I'm not  _stupid,_ Quinn. And I don't want to be a jerk about this, but… come on. I see the way you look at Stacey. It's not that hard to figure out. And I feel like maybe you'd feel better if you tal—"

She stops walking to turn around and glare at him sharply, finger in his face. "Don't you dare."

"Whoa, wait, I wasn't—"

"I know that this is you trying to be a good guy and everything, but I  _don't_ need your help and I  _don't_ need your opinion, so just back off. You will never understand, and  _we. Do not. Talk. About. This._ "

(She knows she's being intensely hypocritical again, but… she can't do this. She doesn't go here.)

He holds his palms up in surrender. "Okay, you're right, I'm sorry. Message received."

She sighs, and slumps against her car door. "I'll be back tomorrow morning to pick you up."

"Huh?" Sam blinks, completely caught off-guard.

"Obviously you're not taking the bus anymore, because none of the routes go near here. And… it doesn't make sense for your parents to waste time and gas taking you all to school when you're on my way, anyway. "

"Quinn…"

"Just please let me do this, okay?"

He frowns, but they both know he's in no place to argue with her logic. "Okay."

* * *

Her first night alone with them goes pretty well, all things considered. She brings her laptop with her, and after helping them with their homework she spends the evening introducing them to the wonder that is cute animals on the internet—ninja cats and dramatic chipmunks and slow lorises getting tickled.

She knows there's food in their tiny kitchenette she could make, but the idea of using that up when she's able to pay for dinner is just… she can't. She doesn't say a word; just asks Stevie and Stacey what they want and then orders it.

And that's it, really. After dinner she lets them watch some kids movie streaming on Netflix while she does her Pre-Calc and Spanish, and then she tucks them in.

A half hour later, they're still tossing and turning restlessly, and she's working on a history report, pretending not to notice.

"Quinn, will you sing for us?" Stevie finally asks in a quiet voice.

She frowns, bracing herself for a repeat of last night, but the anxiety never comes. She still doesn't like the idea of singing without at least Sam's guitar backing her up, but on the other hand, Stevie's a pretty shy kid, and he never asks for  _anything._ And besides, this is mostly them feeling lonely and missing Sam, so…

"Tell you what," she says, getting up and unplugging her laptop, "I have something to show you. Make room?"

The two of them scooch to either side of the fold-out couch and she nestles herself between them, balancing her computer on her knees. Stacey immediately tucks herself under Quinn's left arm and snuggles in, and Stevie rests a tentative head on her right shoulder.

"Are we going to watch another movie?" Stacey asks sleepily.

"Sort of. Sam and I are going to sing for you."

"But Sammy's not here."

"Not right now," Quinn allows. "But I have a video of the two of us singing at Sectionals—our first big glee club concert this year. Do you want to see that?"

"Yeah!"

Rachel's dads have never missed a single performance of hers, and recordings of everything New Directions has ever done are up on her MySpace page. Quinn'd been worried, for a second, that because Rachel hadn't had any solos she'd have neglected to upload the videos, but apparently her anal retentive need to have a complete archive of her life's work trumped her bruised ego.

"Here we go," Quinn says, and pushes play.

It's… really bizarre, actually, watching herself. She's had plenty of experience analyzing old Cheerios routines with Coach Sylvester, but that generally involved a lot of angry rewinding and diagrams drawn over paused images with a laser pointer. It was critical. Mean, even. This is…

Nothing quite prepared her for how  _happy_ the other Quinn looks, dancing on that stage with Sam.

She barely recognizes herself at all.

* * *

Sam's a bit surprised, when he comes home, to find Quinn rooting through his backpack, his Spanish homework already in front of her.

"Um, Quinn? What are you doing?"

"Checking your homework; what does it  _look_ like I'm doing?"

"You can't just go through my shit like that; it's not okay."

"I'm not going through your shit, I'm checking your homework. You're  _welcome._ "

He remembers when they were dating—how she'd stay late with him to go over his work, teaching him algebra shortcuts and editing his essays.  _I'm on the honor roll,_  she'd say harshly,  _so if I'm going to be dating someone in lower-level classes, he should at least be_ _ **passing**_ _them._

He was telling the truth, when he said she was the best thing that happened to him since he moved to Lima. Most of the time Quinn's abrasive at best, but he's always seen right through her. She's not who she pretends to be at all. (And besides, he kind of appreciates it—the fact that she doesn't give him that stupid 'pander to the dyslexic kid' look and baby talk him. She doesn't take no for an answer and forces him to try.)

"You're a good person, Quinn," he murmurs quietly, moving to sit next to her on the floor.

She takes a deep breath in and out, staring down at the loose collection of papers in her hands. "No, I'm not."

"But you—"

"Everything looks pretty okay; if I made any corrections, he'll know you didn't do it. Which means… you've been studying." She gives him a smile he can't interpret. "Guess it finally occurred to you that if you can teach yourself Na'vi, you can manage Mr. Schue's Spanish class, huh?"

Classic Quinn. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well. Football's over, so I have more time on my hands."

"Right," she murmurs, and gets up. "I'm… gonna go. Goodnight, Sam."

"…Night."

* * *

By Thursday, it actually feels like they have a routine going. She drops off and picks up all of the Evans kids from school like clockwork, she and Sam spend a few hours watching Stevie and Stacey horse around on the playground, and at five forty Sam leaves to catch the cross-town bus to work, leaving Quinn with the care and feeding of his siblings.

She decides to take them out to eat. And maybe Taco Bell isn't the most glamorous dining establishment ever, but anything that breaks routine is a pretty awesome adventure as far as Stacey and Stevie are concerned. (Their orders amuse the hell out of her. Stevie gets a baja gordita with lime sauce, which Quinn happens to know is Sam's usual, and picky eater Stacey asks for two  _plain_  beef soft tacos, with absolutely nothing on them—not even cheese. They're so… normal. It's nice.)

The cheapo kids meal toy from Stacey's dinner has already lost its appeal by the time Quinn pulls back into the motel parking lot, which means it doesn't take much to get them to pull out their homework. Stevie is in the middle of a project on the solar system, and Stacey has a worksheet on reading analog clocks; as Quinn patiently explains about big hands and little hands and tries to remember the remedy that gets glue out of carpets, she can't help but feel a pang.

It's an utterly ordinary evening, remarkable only in how unremarkable it is.

She hates that it makes her so sad.

After running the gauntlet of two bedtime stories, a glass of water each and a song, she finally gets Stevie and Stacey to sleep. Easing herself off the couch and stretching, she wanders out to the porch to get some fresh air.

She jumps and has to slap a hand to her mouth to keep from screaming when she finds Sam sitting, back to her, on the front railing.

" _Christ,_ Sam, you scared me! How long have you been sitting out here? I could have used your… hey. Are you okay?"

He doesn't move.

"Sam. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

She sets her jaw and goes to stand next to him, leaning her elbows on the railing and knitting her hands together.

"Stargazing?" she ventures after a moment.

"Yeah. It… calms me down, I guess."

"Something about all that space makes all your problems seem kind of small, right?" she recalls, and holds back a laugh at his expression. "Try not to be so shocked that I listen when you talk."

"I… one of my deliveries tonight was to Dalton. Kurt saw me."

"So he knows you have a job. That doesn't mean he…" she trails off at the guilty look on his face, and sighs. "We've really got to work on this whole 'I don't have a dishonest bone in my body' thing, if you want your secrets to stay secrets. But you and Kurt are… he's not going to…"

"No, Kurt's cool. But, like—no offense Quinn, but I still kind of hate the fact that  _you_ know about this."

"I know," she says quietly. He stares intently at a crack in the railing paint, trying not to look like his world's falling to pieces, and she fights off the sudden urge to—she doesn't even know. Fix it somehow. A kiss to his forehead, or a hand on his knee. Something to remind him that that he's not alone. But it's absurd because it's  _her,_ and tentative friendship or no, that's never going to happen.

She's more than broken enough for the two of them, and she has no right.

* * *

Box springs creak sharply as Quinn pushes Finn down onto his bed, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips.

"I have been waiting," she murmurs, leaning down close and nipping at his ear before pulling him into an aggressive kiss, "all week for this."

Thing is, it's God's honest truth. It sucks, having to avoid him at school all the time—and she knows it's only polite to keep what they have under wraps until the drama blows over somewhat, but she can't talk to Sam, either, and it's just…

It's not that she's  _lonely_. It's just frustrating, is all.

But earlier in the afternoon, Sam had texted her saying she was off the hook for the night, because his parents wanted to have some quality family time. Which is more than fine with her—it just means she gets to enjoy her weekend that much sooner.

"Quinn—" Finn groans, and she smirks into his neck.

She can feel him getting hard against her thigh, and even though she's come a long way from the silly little girl whose motto was  _It's all about the teasing and not about the pleasing,_ she'd be lying if she said she didn't get a thrill from this. (She's learning to accept the fact that the constant need to feel in control probably isn't healthy, but everyone has to have power over  _something._ Or they'd just go insane.)

Suddenly he's shoving at her shoulders, rolling them both over, and her head spins as she tries to process what it feels like to have the full weight of him pushing her into the mattress.

On the one hand, him taking the lead is kind of an unexpected turn-on, because she'd always kept him on such a short leash, before.

On the other hand,  _she'd always kept him on a short leash, before,_ which means he learned to do this from someone else, and that someone else is either Rachel or Santana,and she's so thrown by this realization that she doesn't even hear the front door open.

"Luuuucy, I'm hoooome," Kurt singsongs from the foyer, and in the fraction of a second it takes for Finn to leap off of her, everything inside Quinn turns to ice. (And honestly. It's been  _years,_ and eventually she's going to have to stop being such a little bitch about this.)

Her eyes flicker to Finn to see if he noticed her momentary freakout, but he's too busy mumbling "shit shit shit shit shit mailman mailman _mailman_ " to pay her any attention, scrambling around the bed looking for something to hide his boner, because—

"Finn? Are you down here? What's—he _llooooo._ "

Finn makes a squeaky noise from somewhere in the back of his throat, and Quinn just hides her head in her hands. Slinking his way across the room with his back to the wall, Finn stammers, "I—you know what, we were just gonna—I have to. Pee. And then I'm gonna drive Quinn home. Because she was leaving. Like. I'm gonna—um. Hold on a sec."

He practically throws himself up the steps, leaving Quinn with nothing but Kurt and a whole lot of awkward silence.

She stares at a neutral spot on the wall, utterly mortified and face bright pink—already planning on rejoining the celibacy club, like, fucking _yesterday,_ and praying that Kurt sees a way out of this, because she's got nothing.

"Quinn Fabray,  _when_ are you going to let me burn those travesties you call shoes?"

(She could  _kiss_ him.)

As it is, she bites back a smile, grateful for the subject change. "For the last time, Kurt, I like these shoes."

"I can't see why. And with  _socks_? It's like Lilith Fair on the Prairie."

"There is nothing homosexual about my footwear," she says through gritted teeth. She feels her features fall into the sickly sweet smile Finn calls 'Scary Quinn' as she continues, "Speaking of which, how's Blaine?"

To Kurt's credit, he chuckles.

"He's fine, now that he's gotten over his little Rachel Berry-inspired sexual identity crisis." Quinn opens her mouth to laugh only to end up choking on her own spit, and Kurt shakes his head. "I know. What  _is_ it about that girl?"

She takes a deep breath, and plays with the hem of her dress. "No, but really, though. Things are good?"

"They're… yes. Different, but good. I'm finally starting to feel like a  _part_ of the Warblers, and that makes a world of difference. I'm not just the new kid, I'm one of the guys. It's… nice. We actually hang out together."

"And have pizza parties?" she asks, because she can't leave it alone any longer.

He clears his throat.

"Look, Kurt… I know that you probably feel out of the gossip loop now that you're at Dalton, but you can't tell anyone about this. Not even Mercedes."

He gives her an unexpectedly hard look. "Sam Evans is the only person at that school who never once made me feel like there was something wrong with me being who I am. Literally, the only person. He got a black eye for me. I'm not going to turn around and betray his trust."

(…She should have remembered that, considering it was the whole reason she finally committed to Sam in the first place.)

She sighs, shoulders slumping. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"And while we're on the subject of secret-keeping, you don't have to worry: Finn already brought me up to date on all of  _your_ drama, and my lips are sealed until after Regionals, just like you want." (She considers letting him know that it's definitely not what  _she_ wants, but—so not the point right now.)

He wanders over to sit down next to her on Finn's bed. Staring at his hands in his lap, he murmurs, "But really, Quinn… how bad is it?"

She bites her lip, wondering just how much she can let herself say, but… it's  _Kurt._ "It's not good. The bank repossessed his house. His parents are barely ever around, because they're trying to earn money any way they can, and Sam's… you know he has siblings?"

Kurt shakes his head.

"Yeah. A little brother and sister. They look up to him like he's God's gift, and he's doing everything he can to do right by them, but… there's only so much he can do."

"And where do you fit into the picture?"

"Still figuring that part out. Technically I'm babysitting, but that can mean anything from actually babysitting to just staying around as an extra pair of hands. It's not enough, but I  _really_ owe Sam, and… at least it's nice to know that my housewife skills are good for something."

When she glances up at him, her chest constricts, because he's giving her  _that look._ The one she's been getting for almost a year now—like she's breaking apart and everyone can see it but her, and Beth is the light shining through her cracks.

Bile rises in her throat, but before she can summon enough strength to school her expression into something dangerous and tell him to mind his own fucking business, Kurt twists and grabs her, pulling her into a hug. She stiffens immediately, but he refuses to let go, and… whatever, Kurt smells really good, and it's kind of nice to relax and just let this happen for once.

"It's really not the same without you, you know," she murmurs against his shoulder. The angle is awkward, but now that she's here she can't bring herself to move.

"Yes, well. I'm truly one of a kind."

It's not an  _I miss you too,_ but she doesn't know why she'd expect one.

"Hey," Finn says with a low, easy laugh from the top of the stairs, "get your hands off my girlfriend."

"You're just jealous, Finn," Kurt sniffs, hugging Quinn just a little bit tighter before letting go. "Ours is a forever love. The history of our tragic romance will be written across the stars."

Quinn chuckles as she gets up, and Finn smiles. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah. Bye, Kurt," she says, squeezing his fingers before following Finn up into the foyer.

"Every day without you is a lifetime, Quinnevere," Kurt shouts from the basement, just before they're out of earshot.


	3. Sexy

So, rejoining the Celibacy Club, maybe not the best idea Quinn's ever had.

Apparently in her absence, Celibacy Club has become a fun afternoon way for Miss Pillsbury and Rachel to fuel each other's crazy—which is how she finds herself stared down across two tables whilst getting grilled about her relationship with Finn.

(You know, that relationship that totally doesn't exist, because Rachel is  _fragile_ and Finn doesn't want to hurt her feelings.)

She remembers in elementary school, they learned about how in Congress—or maybe Parliament, she isn't sure—traditionally, the two parties stayed on different sides of the room with a space two sword-lengths apart between them to keep anyone from attacking the opposition. Though she doesn't make a habit of bringing swords to school (one  _very_ vivid dream from last year notwithstanding), she still seats herself as far away from Rachel as possible, just in case.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"Rachel," Miss Pillbury says, "I'm sure that Quinn wouldn't be here if that were the case. And besides, Quinn's learned her lesson about that, haven't you Quinn?"

"Absolutely," she mutters through the gritted teeth of her fake smile.

Kill her now.

* * *

Of course, clearly she hasn't suffered enough, because on top of everything, Miss Holliday comes back as the new Health sub—and if that's not the cherry of cruelty to top the sundae of despair that this week is shaping up to be, Quinn doesn't know what is.

… Until Rachel sits next to her right before glee starts, leaving her no means of escape, and she learns to stop wondering.

Mr. Schue manages to babble out some nonsense about  _the intricacies of adult relationships,_ and then Miss Holliday is in front of the class in her ridiculous leather jacket asking Finn if it's true that he believed he got his girlfriend pregnant via hot tub, and just… in what world should she be expected to deal with this?

"What about those of us who choose to remain celibate?" Rachel asks, gesturing at herself and Quinn like they're  _friends_ or something.

"Oh, well. I admire you. Although I think you're naive and… possibly frigid, I do admire your choice."

Frigid.

It's an interesting word. Accurate, actually, because she's been aiming for it since the summer before freshman year. That was the goal—Quinn Fabray: Ice Queen. Look but don't touch, all teasing and no pleasing.

Here's a fun fact: when she was younger, she masturbated, like,  _constantly._

She doesn't even remember when she started—it just feels like she's always known that a hand between her legs made her feel really good, and that she had to do it in her room and be quiet because Mom and Dad  _really_ didn't like it.

They'd called it The Thing. As in, "Russell, she's doing the thing again," or "Lucy, stop doing the thing." They told her that it wasn't right, that God didn't approve, that it was bad for her. She tried to stop, and she did, mostly, but some nights she just couldn't sleep, and… well.

She hadn't even realized what she'd been doing until a mortifying unit of eighth grade health class. (Masturbation was something  _boys_ did. She didn't even know there was a way for girls to… to…)

Anyway. It's not something  _Quinn_  does. Never has been.

And if Holly Holliday takes offense to that, it's  _really_ not Quinn's problem.

(But yes, she and Rachel join in the dance, or whatever. She never actually had a choice. And she's not going to let her distaste for… all of this, really, make her into a social pariah. Because when you're so uptight that even the  _glee club_ is too wild for you… well, she just really doesn't want to be that person.)

* * *

"You okay?" a voice asks in her ear, and she jumps so abruptly she almost slams her hand into her locker.

"Sam, what are you  _doing_?"

"Checking on you."

"I don't need checking on; I'm not five."

"No, you just look like you're about to, like, kill something."

"Well that's wonderful, and I really appreciate the sentiment, but you need to get out of here." She moves to close her locker and catches sight of a very unwelcome face coming down the hallway in the reflection of her makeup mirror. "Sam. Now."

"I'm getting a little tired of your stupid rules for when and where we're allowed to be friends—"

"Sam, Santana's going to be here in about seven seconds. Be offended later; now  _move._ "

He manages to make himself scarce just in time for Quinn to feel a firm hand on her shoulder, whirling her around.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Just standing here, S. Is that a crime?"

"Fine—what the hell do you think you're doing with Sam?"

"He wanted to borrow my Chemistry homework; I said no. Again: is that a crime?"

Santana narrows her eyes. "I know how you work, Fabray. Just do us both a favor and stay  _away_ from my man."

Quinn bristles, feeling the last of her self-control slip away. If that's how Santana wants to play it, fine. She needs this conversation to be over, like, now, and going for the throat is as natural as breathing. "He's not  _your man_ , he's my sloppy seconds. Just like always with you."

"Ex _cuse_ you?"

"You heard me. Come on, Santana, get real. The Cheerios captaincy? Finn? Puck?  _Sam_? Planning on going out for prom queen, too? Face facts, Lopez—you're always going to be chasing my leftovers, and you're  _always_ going to be the second choice."

For one legitimately terrifying moment, Quinn is sure Santana's going to slam her up against the lockers again, but then something in Santana's eyes flickers and goes out.

"What-fucking-ever," she mutters, and stalks off.

If nothing else, it was a really shitty thing to say about Sam, but considering everything that's going on with Brittany and with Artie (Quinn knows; of course she knows, how could she not know?), she's aware that she crossed a line, even for her and Santana.

Knowing it and being able to do something about it are two very different things, though, and… well, she's never been very good at apologies.

* * *

Here's the thing she loves about Finn—it's easy.

She can make out with him and turn off the world for a little while, and when she pulls back, disheveled and dizzy, and says something stupid like "divorce rules," he doesn't doubt her or ask probing questions, wondering if she's fucking  _okay._

(She's not.)

Here's the truth: she really, really likes him. Even when he's being a complete imbecile, which is most of the time, she's legitimately  _fond_ of Finn Hudson in a way that she doesn't feel for anyone else.

It's not love, though.

She knows she's not in love with him. She never has been.

It's just that… she doesn't think she knows how. And maybe she's not capable of it at all. So if this is as close as she's ever going to get, she may as well hold onto it, right?

* * *

Once she gets over the complete mental disconnect between Mr. Schue saying  _Santana has something she'd like to share_ and the fact that there's some guy plucking at a freaking steel guitar in the corner next to a banjo player, she has to admit that Landslide is… kind of beautiful.

So yes, she smiles. She's not completely heartless. And if one of her petty little digs ended up being the push Santana needed to finally go after what she wants, then… well. Maybe she doesn't have to be sorry after all.

That peace of mind lasts about thirty seconds.

She wishes she hadn't been paying attention, but as the number ends, she sees Sam lean over to Artie and whisper, "Pretty cool that our girlfriends are such good friends, right? I wish you and I were that close," and it's like the floor drops out from beneath her. She may not like the fact that they're together, but Sam deserves to be happy, and Quinn should have remembered where he stood. He's been a better friend to her than Santana ever was, and it just—

God. Why does every nice thing she does for anyone have to be balanced by ruining someone else?

* * *

She's not stupid; she knows  _exactly_ what Afternoon Delight is about. But she also knows that it will be Miss Pillsbury who takes the fall for it, not her, and… revenge is a really hard habit to break, when someone deserves it.

( _No unwanted pregnancies in almost a year._

Funny joke.

Funny, funny joke.)

* * *

Brittany finds her after school the next day.

"Hey. I liked your song," she says, holding onto the straps of her backpack like a life preserver and staring resolutely at her shoes.

"I could tell; you were the only one clapping. I really liked yours, too." Quinn can't even remember the last time she had a one-on-one conversation with Brittany, but it's surprisingly easy to be in her company. "Is there… something I can help you with?"

"It's about that, actually."

"Your song?"

"Santana."

"Ah. Look, why don't we sit down?" Quinn juts her chin towards the front steps, and Brittany follows obediently. "So?"

"I don't know. I'm just really confused right now, and you're really good at this stuff, so. I was hoping you could explain it to me."

Quinn has no idea what  _this stuff_ is, and knowing Brittany, this conversation could go any one of a thousand ways, so she prepares herself for anything. "Okay. Shoot."

"Santana said she's in love with me."

… That, she wasn't prepared for. (Since when is  _that_ something she's good at?)

"I… B, how is that confusing for you?"

"Because I'm with Artie, and I can't just dump him to be with her, that wouldn't be fair. And I told her that, and she got really upset and wouldn't let me hug her and now I don't know what to do. She made it seem like this was important, but I don't know what's changed."

"Britt—"

"Do you think you can love two people at the same time?" she asks, and Quinn feels a sudden stabbing pain in her chest. Because that was her, not too long ago. Her, justifying cheating to Finn, and she's been doing damage control for that moment of weakness ever since.

She still isn't sure if she made the right choice.

"I… I don't know. Do  _you_ think you can?"

"I love everyone at the same time," Brittany says simply. "But Santana doesn't think I'm allowed to, and I don't want to mess her up. I don't want to mess anyone up. And I'm  _with_ Artie."

"I know. I… You're doing the right thing, by protecting your heart."

"But Santana—"

"If Santana loves you the way she says she does, then she'll wait. And if she doesn't… well, it's better if you know that now, don't you think?" Her phone buzzes, and she reaches into her pocket to pull it out. "Sorry, hold on."

Message from: Sam Evans **  
Im w S. need u 2 pick up sibs + bbsit**

Crap. Crap, crap,  _crap._

"Who is it?" Britt asks, leaning over to try and look at the screen. Quinn flinches away.

"Nothing. It… I have somewhere I need to be, but—call me later. Okay?"

"Okay." To her complete surprise, Brittany leans in and wraps her in a tight hug. "You're a good friend, Q."

"Yeah, that's the rumor," Quinn mutters quietly into Britt's shoulder.

She's still having a pretty hard time believing it.

* * *

It's not like he'd really had much choice in the matter. One second he'd been putting stuff away in his locker, the next second Santana had him back to the wall, kissing him everywhere, purring "Your place or mine?" against his lips. He'd barely had time to squeak "yours" before she was pulling him out to the parking lot as he desperately tried to text Quinn to let her know what was happening.

Next thing he knows, Santana's opening up the backseat of her car and unceremoniously shoving him inside, climbing in on top of him and basically attacking him with her mouth.

"What—mmmph—what about your place?" he stutters, and he can practically feel her rolling her eyes.

"Can't wait."

It may be sexy, but nothing about it is very romantic, and for the life of him he just can't get his mother's voice out of his head.  _Be a gentleman, Sammy. It's your job to make your girl feel special._

He blurts out the first thing he thinks of. "I, uh, I really liked your song yesterday. In glee."

"Shut up," she says hotly, mouth against his throat.

"No, I mean it. You and Brittany sound really pretty toget—ow! Shit, did you just  _bite_ me?"

"Seriously," she growls, "if you want this to happen, you're gonna have to shut up."

Before he can get himself together enough to ask 'want  _what_ to happen' she's going for his belt buckle, and— _oh._

Though they've gone pretty far, they haven't done… this. He's not a virgin, but only barely—and somehow, any experience he gained during the break room quickie he had with Kelsie Keppler the summer after ninth grade working at the comic book store when she'd called herself the Ultimate Kitty Pryde to his Ultimate Spidey just doesn't seem like it's going to be of much use with Santana Lopez.

"Do you have a—a—"

"Condom? God, who the fuck do you think I am, Quinn Fabray?"

Using Quinn's name at a moment like this is about a thousand times more off-putting than Coach Beiste's ever was, but before he can do anything about it, she's kissing him again.

After that, they really don't do much talking.

* * *

At long last, the week from hell ends.

Quinn doesn't relax until she's back in bed with Finn, and it's maddening, how one person can make her feel so safe and so completely vulnerable at the same time. She tries to get mad about the hickey, but she can't—it feels good, to have some kind of solid proof that she's with someone. That he wants her enough to mark her. And if that bothers Rachel fucking Berry, all the better.

"This is where I belong," she whispers, running her palm up his arm and cupping his jaw, because her hands are cold and Finn is always, always warm. "With you. Kay?"

It doesn't quite feel like the truth, but it's not a lie, either.

She hopes it will be enough to hold them together.


	4. Original Song (1)

Despite the fact that she and Finn have been spending more and more time in each other's beds—just kissing, but still, she's putting in the effort—it feels like their relationship is going absolutely nowhere.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we should go out. On an actual date."

He rolls over to look at her properly, and her heart sinks at the frown on his face. "I dunno. Wouldn't that kind of go against the whole dating-in-secret thing?"

"Maybe I'm tired of dating in secret," she says harshly, and tries not to feel good about the way he flinches at her tone. "It… it could be fun. We could drive a few towns over, go where nobody knows us… how about Friday?"

"I can't on Friday. It's family dinner."

"It's what?"

"Family dinner. It used to be like this serious thing for Kurt and his dad, and now we all do it. So I can't go out."

And if it hurts that he doesn't even think to invite her, it's her job not to let it show. Carole has more than enough reasons to hate her, and she knows better than to go places she's not welcome.

"Some other night, then?"

"Uh, yeah. Totally."

They both know what that means.

Suddenly, first two lines of the chorus to Don't Stop Believin' ring, tinny and muffled, from Finn's backpack, and he rolls off the bed to check his phone. Without breaking momentum, he sprawls out in Quinn's desk chair and starts typing a response.

"Who're you texting?" she asks, sitting up and adjusting her cardigan to give herself a shred of decency.

"Rachel. She wants me to meet her tomorrow morning before class; she wrote a new song. She wants my opinion."

"Why are you helping her?"

Finn frowns and twists uncomfortably in his seat, looking frustrated. "Because, like. No one ever gives her a chance, and I know she's annoying and everything, but she's also like super talented, and I just feel like… it would be stupid to waste that. I like it when we win, and whether you're cool with it or not, Rachel's our best shot at doing that."

She's not sure which of them is more surprised by his little outburst.

"You know what?" she finally ventures. "I think you're right."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah."

"So I have, like, permission to see her tomorrow?"

She used to love it when he asked her for permission to do stuff—it meant he knew who was in charge. But she has absolutely no way of reading their power dynamic these days, and the idea of trying to sort it out just leaves her queasy.

"Of course. Besides, she needs your help. I trust you."

And she does. (Mostly.)

Rachel, however…

So really, what happens next isn't a surprise at all.

* * *

"Thank you for coming to my defense, Quinn," Rachel says, struggling to keep up with Quinn's longer strides as they leave rehearsal. "I know we've had our disagreements in the past, so it means a lot to me that you have enough faith in my talents that you'd be willing to put that aside for the good of the club."

"Yeah, well," Quinn mumbles, fumbling with the combination to her locker.

"So when do you want to have our first songwriting meeting?"

"Couldn't we do it during glee?"

Rachel's open expression falters for a moment, but then rights itself. "I was hoping to be present while the others wrote their song, but if that's the only time you're available, that's fine."

"So… tomorrow after school, then?"

"Tomorrow it is. But leave the evening open-ended—if the creative juices start flowing, I don't want us to be cut off!"

"Um… yeah. Okay."

She shoots Sam a text explaining that he won't be able to rely on her for rides home for the next few days, and then all she can do is wait.

* * *

To Quinn's immense relief, Rachel goes out of her way to be downright tolerable—at first.

"Finn thinks that if I want to write a good song, I need to access my true emotional depths."

"Sounds logical enough," Quinn agrees mildly.

"So, I'm just going to toss a few ideas out there, and we'll see what you think. This first one is called Slushie Facial—"

"Rachel," Quinn interrupts, already seeing where this is going, "stop."

"What?" she asks, brown eyes wide and searching.

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but—Finn's right. Look, the thing is,  _anyone_ at this school could write a song about getting Slushied. The point is to dig deep into who you are as a person. Write a song only you could write."

"I thought we were writing together."

Quinn tries on an accommodating smile. "You're right. A song only  _we_ could write, then. So where does that leave us?"

"Well, you gave away your baby to my mother."

_Girl, you walked right into that one,_ the voice in the back of Quinn's head notes. (She's not entirely sure when that voice started sounding just like Mercedes, but she finds it makes her conscience much more tolerable.)

"…Quinn?"

"Um, yeah, sorry."

"I didn't mean to offend you. We can—"

"No, you're right. It's—fine."

"So… why did you do it?"

"Give her away, or give her away to Ms. Corcoran?" she asks. Rachel's eyes flicker and fall, and Quinn sighs. "I was just trying to do the right thing."

"Wait, hold on." Rachel flips to a new page of her spiral notebook and diligently writes  _doing the right thing_ on the first line. It's actually eerily reminiscent of Mr. Schuester, but not even Quinn is cruel enough to make that comparison to Rachel's face. Rachel dots her Is and crosses her Ts, and then looks up again, silently asking Quinn to elaborate.

"It just felt like…" Quinn murmurs, and almost chokes on all the things she'll never say. Maybe it's because she's read too many depressing books and seen too many clichéd movies, but she didn't want her daughter—she didn't want  _the baby_ to have any delay in getting to her final home. Quinn just couldn't take the image of her laying there in the bassinet without a family, waiting for someone to love her. And Shelby was _there._ "…it just seemed like the inevitable choice. The pieces all fell together."

"But what about everyone else? Noah wanted to keep her."

Quinn rolls her eyes. " _Noah_ wants to not become his father, and couldn't see that that was irrelevant to the actual situation. Puck's daddy issues aren't a reason to keep a baby we couldn't take care of."

_Sacrifices_ goes on the next line of the list, but when Rachel looks up again, Quinn's wholly unprepared for the open, vulnerable look on her face. "If Beth were to find you, fifteen years from now, what would you do?"

And God, she is so not ready to have this conversation with  _anyone,_ least of all Rachel Berry.

She can't even deflect. Concentrating on a different aspect of the question will only strand her in a minefield—where she sees herself in fifteen years is  _married to Finn Hudson,_ and she has the feeling that won't go down well.

"It's not like with you, Rachel," Quinn finally says softly. "Beth has a mom. Maybe one day she'll go looking for Puck, but she won't need me."

"Of course she will," Rachel breathes. "You don't understand."

Quinn bristles at the accusation, but she knows this is her out, and she's not going to miss her chance at it just to get into a meaningless fight. "So explain it to me," she says. "Is that what it feels like for you?"

She can tell by the look on Rachel's face that she's made it home free. Asking Rachel to talk about herself is a one-way ticket to an endless monologue, and Quinn sighs with relief and tunes out. Since she's started dating Finn the second time around, her ability to at least  _seem_ attentive has become second nature—she nods and adds a few  _of course_ s and  _you're absolutely right Rachel_ s in the right places, and the next half hour passes without incident.

Finally, Rachel takes a deep, calming breath and says, "Well. I think this has been very productive, don't you?"

_Hell to the no._ "I guess, but… we didn't even touch the piano."

"Good music is about emotions, Quinn. Just like you said. Now that we've finally gotten in touch with ours, the actual writing will be relatively easy, don't you think?"

"You're the expert," Quinn says wearily, and Rachel  _beams_ at her. She's not sure why, because the fact that Rachel's a talented musician really isn't news, so it's not like Quinn's actually being nice or anything. Just stating the obvious.

"I must say, Quinn, despite my early reservations, I'm actually very optimistic about the potential prospects of our partnership. Do you want to meet up again tomorrow? During glee?"

"Sure. Don't be late."

* * *

She's not sure what to make of the fact that a text conversation with Sam is the highlight of her evening.

Message from: Sam Evans **  
Hw was ur thing w Rachel?**

_**Fine. Uncomfortable and personal to the point of invasive, but that's just Rachel, so: fine. Did we miss anything good in glee?** _

Message from: Sam Evans **  
Dpends on who u ask**

_**Oh?** _

Message from: Sam Evans **  
Santa wrote a song abt me**

Message from: Sam Evans **  
*Santa**

Message from: Sam Evans **  
SANTANA stupid phone**

…  _ **do I want to know?**_

Message from: Sam Evans **  
Its called trouty mouth**

_**I'm sorry, was that autocorrect acting up, or did she write a song called TROUTY MOUTH?** _

Message from: Sam Evans **  
Shut up**

It's stupid, but she really needed the laugh.

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning, her only goal for the day is to get through it.

One year. How has it only been one year?

The morning routine is easy—she sleepwalks through that even on the good days. Brush teeth, brush hair. Do makeup, get dressed, make breakfast, stare at food without eating it. Simple. Achievable.

Driving Sam's siblings to the elementary school is her first real test, but she just keeps her eyes on the road and does not for the life of her glance in the rearview mirror.

She can do this.

Sam looks at her curiously, probably wondering why she's so quiet, but doesn't say anything. She's grateful. He has no idea what's going on, and God, it's nice for  _someone_ to not know enough to give her… that look. When she drops him off at the corner of Maple and Jefferson so he can walk the rest of the way to school, he gives her is customary genial wave, and she savors it.

It's the last bit of normalcy she has all day.

It's interesting, watching how people treat her. How Mercedes offers her a seat at lunch; how Puck avoids her like the plague. (And she's probably a terrible person for not thinking this more often, but Christ, she misses Kurt.)

Finn vacillates between doting on her and looking like he hates himself, which means he knows perfectly well what day it is. But he's not gonna bring it up unless she does, and the idea that  _she_ would is… well. It's almost funny, watching him flail around her helplessly, without even the slightest bit of emotional maturity to guide him.

And Quinn doesn't feel anything at all.

* * *

It's just that she keeps thinking about what today would be like, if things had turned out the way he'd wanted. How they'd probably be living in his mom's basement—her, Finn, and April.

(Not Beth. Beth is  _Puck's_ , and Drizzle… Drizzle is an appalling name for a baby girl, but Quinn gets what Finn meant, about spring showers and the smell of light rain.

She could've compromised with April.)

* * *

Finn pulls her into an empty classroom right after the final bell.

"What are you doing? People are going to see us," she says woodenly. She can't really bring herself to care, but she has to say something.

"Yeah, well… screw them," he says, giving her a hug, and neither of them mention the spot of wetness that makes its way onto his t-shirt when she nuzzles into his chest.

"Thank you," she whispers, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Are you… gonna be okay? Hanging out with Rachel?" he asks, rubbing her back gently with his palm.

"I'll be fine."

It's only Rachel. She may be annoying, but they've already  _covered_ their traumatic mutual history. What's the worst she could do?

* * *

_"You're late."  
_

" _We're friends, right?"  
_

" _Yeah, I guess so."  
_

" _I mean, like. Everything that happened last year… you gave your baby to my mom… we kind of bonded over it, right?"  
_

" _What's your point?"  
_

" _My point is, is that I know we haven't spent a lot of time together this year, but… I thought that we were close enough to be honest with each other."  
_

" _Go ahead. Ask me."  
_

"— _Fine. Are you and Finn together?"  
_

" _Yes. It's been a couple of weeks. …It's like Groundhog's Day with you, Rachel. How many times do you have to make the same mistake to realize it's not going to work out?"  
_

" _Well thank you for being honest with me, Quinn, and—and I'm happy for you and Finn, but don't try and go rewrite history, okay, it was real between us. He chose me over you."  
_

" _And how long did that last for?"_

" _Why are you being so mean?"  
_

" _Do you want to know how the story plays out? I get Finn, you get heartbroken, and then Finn and I stay here and start a family. I'll become a successful… real estate agent, and—and Finn will take over Kurt's dad's tire shop._ _ **You don't belong here, Rachel.**_ _And you can't hate me for helping to send you on your way."  
_

" _I'm not giving up on Finn. It's not over between us."  
_

" _YES, IT IS! You're_ _ **so**_ _frustrating! And that is why you can't write a good song, because you live in this little school girl fantasy of life. Rachel, if you keep looking for that happy ending, then you are_ _ **never**_ _going to get it right. So we're done with that, and why don't we just return to our work, okay?"_

Here's the thing: she hadn't been talking about Rachel at all. Not really.

But the unfortunate truth is that the only person who'd maybe be able to get that is Puck, and that's just… really not going to happen.

She's halfway to the motel before it even registers that she's started driving.

* * *

Sam doesn't even look up as she walks in. "Man, if you and Rachel had even half the day we had, this competition is in the  _bag._ Mercedes wrote this hilarious song called Hell to the No, and it got us all in a great mood, and Mr. Schue figured out that we should—hey. Have you been crying?"

"It's her birthday."

"…Rachel's?"

"No, it— _hers._ "

He frowns, taking a moment to process, and then says, "Oh." Then he turns to his brother, who's watching some cartoon or another on the rabbit-eared TV. "Stevie, watch Stacey. I've gotta talk to Quinn outside for a minute."

"Kay."

"Is Quinn okay?" Stacey asks, all blonde hair and wide eyes and holy shit,  _no,_   _Quinn is not okay._

"I'll—I have to go," she stutters, backing away until her spine hits the porch railing.

Sam follows her out, gently closing the door behind him.

"Do you, um," he mumbles, staring at his shoes and rubbing his palms against his jeans, "do you want a hug?"

She glares.

"Okay, forget I asked. So, what happened?"

"Rachel."

"Rachel happened?"

"The really twisted thing is, I expected her to remember. Rachel's weird about that stuff, and I actually thought she might… whatever, I'm an idiot, and she just wanted to talk about  _Finn._ I just…"

(She can feel herself crossing a line, but God, she never says anything about  _anything,_ and if she doesn't talk she'll cry and she just can't handle being that weak anymore. And besides, it's not like she's making any sense.)

"…I have worked so hard, to make things work this time around, and it's like just because she's talented she feels like she's entitled to have _everything in the world._ And I get it, I'm selfish, I'm a terrible person, but I know when to make sacrifices and I have given up  _so much_ for—for her to have a better life, and it's like…"

He shoots her a helpless look that clearly says  _Wait, are we talking about Rachel or Beth right now?_ but if she knew that, she wouldn't be here in the first place.

"…I need him, and she doesn't, and it will just hold her back anyway and if she'd be a rational person for all of  _five seconds_ maybe she'd figure that out, and wouldn't need me to tell her it's not appropriate to talk about stealing someone's boyfriend to their  _face._ It's not appropriate to ask me where I see myself in fifteen years if she's just going to act like my answer is a personal attack. I'm fine with being the one left behind. It's exactly what I deserve. Why won't she ever just  _let_ me?"

Sudden silence stretches between them, filled only by Quinn's ragged breathing, and he's never felt so in over his head.

"Um… Quinn, I'm here for you and everything, but, like… I dunno. Shouldn't you be talking to Finn about this?"

He says it gently, but it hits her like a punch to the gut.

She's such a  _bitch._ And it's not like that's news, but if it weren't for the fact that she'd gone running back to Finn she'd be  _with_ Sam right now, and honestly. She has no right to ask anything of him, and she's not entirely sure when she forgot that.

"Sam, I—" she chokes, "I am  _so sorry._ "

She can hear him calling after her as she sprints to her car, but she's not going to do this to him. Not now, not ever.

* * *

Thank God Finn opens the door, because she doesn't know what she'd do if she had to deal with Kurt—or worse, one of their  _parents—_ when she feels like this.

"Quinn, what…?"

"We're together, right?"

"What?"

"Just. Regionals are this weekend. No more hiding. You're my boyfriend, and we're running for Prom King and Queen, and we can hold hands in the hallway now and not care about whether or not it hurts Rachel's feelings?"

"Sure, but—Quinn,  _what?_ "

But she is really,  _really_ done with opening up for the day, so she just ends up collapsing into his chest, ear right up against his heartbeat.

She doesn't cry—to be honest, she kind of suspects she's not even capable of more tears at this point. But she can't stop shaking, and Finn does nothing but hold her as she trembles uncontrollably in his arms.

"Quinn, it's okay. It's gonna be okay," he says against her hair, over and over like he's always done, and she'd try to believe him if she had any idea what okay's supposed to feel like in the first place.

She still remembers, with perfect clarity, when he told her his mom knew about the baby. How somewhere between  _Quinn, I think I kinda messed up_  and  _You're wrong, I'm right; I'm smart, you're dumb_  he'd confessed to singing to a sonogram, and  _God,_ he's going to make a wonderful father someday.

(Which is why she  _has_ to marry him. Because she already knows, with absolute certainty, that her children will always need more and deserve better than  _her_.)

* * *

She's been to therapy exactly once.

Two days after she moved back in with her mother, over the most awkward dinner of her life (she'd halfheartedly pushed things around on her plate, failing to see the point when they both knew the emptiness she was feeling wasn't hunger), Mom had said, "I think you should see someone, Quinnie. You've been through so much…"

"What, like a  _special talk_ with Greg after church group? Mom, I don't think a youth pastor is really equipped to—"

"I don't mean like Greg, sweetheart. I mean a… a…"

Her mouth went dry. "Shrink?"

"I just want you to feel understood."

Somehow, she'd managed not to laugh in her mother's face.

So she'd gone. Dr. Morgan asked her a few questions and she'd sat there and stared at him, running down the time.

"So, let me guess," she'd said with a frosty smile at the end of their session. "I have  _trust issues,_ right?"

And that was that. She went out to car and told her mom that it was very helpful and that she'd had a breakthrough. No need to go back; she just needed to get some stuff off her chest, and she felt much better now.

For the past few days, she'd been thinking about… just putting it all out there, and bearing her soul to Sam. (She'd make a terrible Catholic, she thinks. She resents guilt and abhors confession, and reliving her mistakes to some stranger behind a screen isn't going to make God any less disappointed in her.) How they'd sit on his porch steps after tucking in Stacey and Stevie, and…  _talk._ Like friends do.

"You'd think I'd be able to feel it," she'd say, hugging herself. "There's this person out there, and she's  _mine,_ and I don't miss her and I can't love her and honestly, I barely ever think about her anymore. Not unless I'm playing with Stacey. And yeah, I'm good—I am  _very_ good at pushing things away, I know that, but… at some point, there's probably supposed to be a limit on how much you can repress, right? You'd think having a kid would be it. I don't know, I just… it's like I'm broken, Sam. When I think about her, I don't feel… anything. Does that make me a horrible person?"

Now, in her daydream, Sam just levels her with a look and says, "Shouldn't you be talking to Finn about this?"

And, well. It's not like he's wrong.


	5. Original Song (2)

So, Regionals sucks.

She should have given up on the day entirely when Sue trotted out her Aural Intensity kids and basically gave her faith the middle finger, but she clung to the hope that somehow, the Warblers could salvage… something. God help her, she legitimately likes those boys.

Instead, she cries throughout the entirety of Kurt and Blaine's duet together.

"I know, right?" Finn says, leaning over to whisper in her ear. "I'm so freaking proud of him."

That's not why she's crying.

She's crying because something's changed between Kurt and Blaine—she can see it on their faces—and she can't remember the last time she ever felt anything like that. She can't remember if she's felt it at all.

She's crying because when she looks at Finn, he's looking at Rachel, and she has to physically put his hand in hers to remind him of who it is he's here with.

She's crying because they've all already heard Rachel rehearsing her song, and she knows what's coming and she knows she has no way of stopping it.

The worst part is, she  _wishes_ she were freaking out about what happened at Regionals last year. She would even prefer—by a long shot—to be having a panic attack over the fact that she's about to dance around on stage singing about how people want to be a 'loser like her' to a crowd that includes her  _mother._ ("I've missed so many of your performances, sweetheart, I don't want to miss out on any more of them.") But she can't. She can't because she's stuck backstage, watching Rachel steal the show and Finn fall in love with someone else.

Again.

If she clenches her jaw tightly enough, the ringing in her ears can just barely drown out Rachel's voice. It's her only defense, and she clings to it with everything she has—because if she lets it, Get It Right will hit her in all the dusty, forgotten corners she abandoned long ago, and she really can't afford to fall apart right now.

( _How many times will it take?_ )

And suddenly it's her turn.

Here's a secret Quinn tries to keep close to her chest: she kind of… really likes glee. She's never going to be the person fighting for solos or, God help her, pretending that the glee club is some sort of  _family,_ but—she likes performing. She likes the music.

And she's so, so grateful to have something she can just throw herself into, and shut out the rest of the world.

(It helps, is all. When she's on stage, no one thinks twice about the fact that she's putting on an act.)

Things are kind of a blur after they stop singing; they're ushered into their own little green room to wait for the results, and she sits in her uncomfortable folding chair and Finn sits in his uncomfortable folding chair right next to her. Despite the proximity he feels impossibly far away, and she breathes a sigh of relief when he presses the side of his left foot flush with her right. (Even if Rachel's pulling him like the magnet she is, he hasn't floated away yet. He's solid and he's close and he's  _Quinn's_.)

* * *

It doesn't really feel like winning, when they win.

* * *

They have to wait for the crowds to leave before the buses can even get out, so they're all just kind of milling around, waiting. Gradually, a sea of navy with red piping appears in the corner of her eye, and she starts moving without thinking about it.

"Kurt, wait up!"

He turns in confusion, gives a weak smile when he sees her jogging toward him and walks forward to meet her halfway.

"Hi."

"Hey there, knight in shining armor. I just… I just wanted to say that you sang really, really well today."

"I  _lost,_ Quinn."

She glances over his shoulder to see the other Warblers, and her chest tightens as she catches Blaine staring at Kurt. Just… waiting for him. If she were a braver person, she might say something like  _The only loser here is me, you idiot; turn around,_ but she's never been that sentimental, and she's familiar enough with Kurt's ego to know that he's not in a place to hear that, yet. "I—"

"Kurt!" Sam shouts, coming from nowhere to join them.

"Hey, Sam."

"Bump it, dude, that was totally solid," Sam says, offering up a fist. Exchanging a muted, amused glance with Quinn, Kurt reluctantly taps Sam's hand with his knuckles. Sam beams.

"You really like him, huh," he notes, jerking his chin to where Blaine is trying to look like he's  _not_ gazing at Kurt. He doesn't do inconspicuous very well, and Quinn finds herself smirking.

Kurt blinks, utterly flustered. "I—yes."

"He really like you?" Sam asks, though he clearly already knows the answer.

"…yes."

"That's  _awesome._ "

And Kurt's suddenly smiling, looking like he's about to cry, and it's so  _easy,_ with Sam. She can't even be jealous. That's just who Sam is and what he does.

"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel!"

Quinn can't help it—she grins. "C'mon, Sam," she says, tugging gently at his arm, "I think Mercedes needs her turn." They barely get out of the way in time to avoid the two best friends' collision, both of them happily squealing notes that would make Rachel jealous.

Sam easily falls in step behind her as they make their way to the front door, taking their time as Mr. Schue attempts to herd the rest of New Directions outside and into the parking lot.

They've gotten good at this; to the outside observer, it would seem completely random and casual for Sam to follow her onto the bus and swing himself into the two-seater behind hers.

* * *

It's bizarre, being on the bus ride back with the other glee kids. Because for them, today was a victory. They won Regionals, they did it with original songs about their own plight and abuse, and since Sue punched the Lieutenant Governor's wife, they'll probably be free of her for a month, at least. The atmosphere is jubilant.

For everyone but Quinn.

(It's sickening, how familiar that sensation is to her.)

Finn keeps leaning to his side to catch a glance of Rachel, sitting in the front with Mr. Schuester and talking a mile a minute.

She knows what she has to do.

"Go sit with her."

"What?"

"Look, she just single-handedly won this for us, and you're proud of her, and you're friends. I get it. Go sit with her."

He gives her a baffled, searching look. "Is this, like, a test?"

She glares at him until he gets up, and actually breathes a little easier in his absence.

"Hey, mama," Mercedes says, sliding into Finn's now-vacant seat, and Quinn  _knows_ she's not making a reference, but something fractures in her for the thousandth time anyway. "Can you give me a ride home when we get back to McKinley?"

"She can't," Sam says, leaning over the seatback from behind her. "We have a church thing."

"Can't be late," Quinn adds with an apologetic smile that doesn't feel entirely forced. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I'll just hitch a lift with Asian Fusion over there," she says, jerking a thumb to where Mike and Tina are making out at the back of the bus. She shakes her head, laughing softly. "It's stupid, but—I still had it in my head that I could get a ride from Kurt."

"That's not stupid," Quinn and Sam say at the exact same time, before sharing a mortified glance. Mercedes raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe y'all should spend  _less_ time hangin' out together at church, before your Wonder Twin powers activate or something. Catch you later, Q," she says, getting up to go over to Artie and Brittany.

Quinn looks up to glare at Sam, annoyed at him for—well, having the same response as her, which is probably an irrational thing to be angry about, but whatever—but he's too busy staring at Mercedes.

"Did she just make a Super Friends joke?"

* * *

There are only two rules in Quinn's car, and they're very simple. The first is no food or drink under any circumstances. The second is that Quinn always, always drives.

Except, apparently, today.

"Give me the keys, Quinn."

" _No._ "

"Look, you're gonna make a scene if you keep this up, and neither of us wants to draw attention. So just hand 'em over."

"What, and you driving me away in my car  _won't_ attract attention?"

"There's something I want to show you."

"And you can't give me directions?"

"Just give me the keys, Quinn."

The fact that she gives in and hands them over is probably the biggest testament of all to how absolutely hellish her day has been.

* * *

"… A dump."

"Technically it's a landfill."

"You took me to a  _dump._ "

"We're gonna break some shit," he explains, rummaging through a conspicuously-constructed pile of trash and pulling out a baseball bat.

He's prepared in advance. Marvelous.

"This isn't a chick flick, Sam, or one of your stupid metaphorical coming of age allegories. It's going to take more than a baseball bat and some primal scream therapy to fix me."

He levels her with one of his open, searching gazes. "I never said you were broken, Quinn. I just think you have a lot of rage right now, and, like, I  _get_ that. It's like you said—we've been there." His eyes flick towards the ground. "You were right, about what you said a few weeks ago. After you… talked to me, I figured that it was better to take stuff out on this junk than my body. Or in your case…" he trails off, and she sucks in a breath, knowing that if he mentions either _her_ body or Rachel Berry she will rip that bat from his hands and break his nose with it, "…I dunno. Some random freshman who looks at you the wrong way on Monday."

Part of her still wants nothing more than to bash his stupid face in, but he's being so earnest about the whole thing that she just sighs and begrudgingly takes the bat.

"Atta girl!" he grins, and she rolls her eyes.

"How long has… this…" she murmurs, waving her free hand around, "been going on?"

"Since we lost the house."

"How?"

"How what?"

"I mean. We see each other all the time. And you don't have a car."

"Oh, um. Sometimes I come here before giving the car back at work. Kurt drove me, once."

"Did Kurt break anything?"

"Just a nail. He kind of wasn't that into it, after that," Sam says, with a completely straight face.

Quinn can't stop herself—she loses it, dissolving into peals of laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"N-nothing," she gasps, leaning on the baseball bat for support. She's quickly rounding amusement and entering hysteria, and her eyes widen as she realizes she isn't even a tiny bit in control of her own body.

"…Quinn?"

"Nothing, it's nothing, I'm fine," she pants, struggling for air against her frantic giggle fit.

"Are you having a—?"

"No," she wheezes, and she thinks she might even be telling the truth. "It just… it's just been a long day."

He reaches out to rub her back, but she flinches away from him; he takes a respectful step backward, keeping his palm out in a placating gesture. "Okay. Yeah. You just… take your time."

Slowly but surely she gets her breathing under control, leaning on the bat and staring resolutely at the ground. Eventually, she inhales deeply and draws herself up, swinging the bat to cradle it in her other hand.

"I can't do this with you staring at me like that."

"Fair enough. Do you want me to just, like, wait in the car?"

She closes her eyes. "Yeah. That's… yes."

"Okay. I'll just be… y'know. I'll wait."

And then he's gone, and it's just her, and silence, and heaps of trash.

(Sounds about right.)

She twirls the bat in her hands, seeking a firmer grip. With a frown, she flexes her fingers, then gives it a few experimental swings, feeling out the weight and balance. She hasn't touched one in years—she'd forgotten how natural it feels, to just screw around with a baseball bat. It instantly brings her back to playing softball at Bible Camp in elementary school, and summer afternoons on the lawn with her father—

CRASH.

Quinn stares at the hunk of metal beneath her bat that used to be a stove, and… she can't deny how satisfying that feels.

Turning around, her eyes fall on a decrepit old rocking chair. Her pulse pounds in her ears, and all she can see is Finn looking at Rachel backstage, a softness in his eyes she only ever saw when he mistakenly thought she was carrying his bastard child, and—

WHAM.

CRUNCH.

Suddenly, nothing is safe. The whole junkyard is hers to destroy, and she goes at it with single-minded focus. Every single slam of the bat sends shockwaves up her arms, making her muscles sting and quake, but the pain feels good. It feels  _real_.

A small part of her wonders how crazy she must look right now.

The rest of her doesn't care.

_No one at glee is going to judge you._

_I know you're giving her up, but—before you do… I think you should name her Beth._

_Oh, please! She has a family; she's a mother!_

_That's the thing about cheating. When you really love someone, you'd do anything to keep them safe._

_Sometimes I wish you were more like Rachel._

_Everyone thinks I'm dumb, but I'm not. At least—not about you. You play it cool, but you're ambitious. You like being the Queen Bee, and you think being with star quarterback Finn is gonna put you up there, whether you're wearing a Cheerios uniform or not._

_You remind me of a young Sue Sylvester._

_Who are you? I don't recognize you at all._

_I think you can get something even better. I mean, come on. You're Quinn Fabray, right?_

_I don't hate you._

_It's not over between us._

"Quinn? It's been like a million years, are you—"

She whirls around, bat flying, and only barely checks her swing in time. For a second, she and Sam just stare at each other, wide-eyed—him frozen, shell-shocked and bewildered; her manic, chest heaving and face red.

"Sam," she breathes, and it breaks the spell.

He tears his gaze away from hers and glances over her shoulder to take in the wreckage, and whistles.

" _Jesus,_ Quinn," he murmurs.

"You wanted me to express myself and take out my anger," she reminds him dully as he moves past her, walking around to get a better look at the damage.

"Um. Yeah. But… Jesus, Quinn."

"Stop taking the Lord's name in vain, Samuel," she snits, because what was the point of inviting her to do this—forcing her here against her will—if he's just going to judge her when she actually does what he asks?

"Hey, sorry, I'm not…" Sam frowns, studying her. "I didn't mean it like that."

Quinn sighs. "I know."

"Here, look up," he says, coming to stand next to her.

She raises an eyebrow, but her voice is affectionate when she says, "You and space."

"Stop making fun of me and look up," he orders, and when she does, he looks up too. "It's just… the atmosphere. You know? We're breathing in air, and, like—there's no glass. There's no bubble. The only thing holding it all in is gravity, and the only thing between us and the stars is _air._ It's insane. We're so small, Quinn."

"Why doesn't that terrify you?" she asks, in a voice much weaker than she intends.

He looks back down at her, grinning. "Because it means we can't screw up. We're taken care of. We don't have to keep the air in."

_We have a church thing_ had been his excuse to Mercedes. And she knows it's stupid, and he was just thinking on his feet, but… it's kind of the closest she's felt to God in a long time. Before her parents made church about what you aren't allowed to say and who you aren't allowed to touch, it had been about something much more important, and yeah, there's an actual reason she still goes. And when it hits her that she doesn't have to explain that to him, or justify her faith (she loves Kurt, but saying the fact that bad things happen to good people is proof that there's no higher power is basically the opposite of everything she believes in), it's—

The only time she's ever thrown herself at anyone for a hug was Mr. Schuester, and she's been blaming that one on the pregnancy hormones. She kind of wants to keep it that way, so she settles for taking his hand and squeezing it.

"Thank you, Sam."

" _Hayalo oeta_ ," he shrugs, which she assumes is 'you're welcome' in Na'vi or something, and—God.

She knows the peaceful feeling won't last, but for now… for now it's enough.

* * *

(Of course she votes for Rachel for MVP. She's not an  _idiot._

And when she ends up nestled between Sam and Finn in their giant group hug, it feels so much like completing a circuit that she's actually able to forget that Rachel's in the middle, for a minute.)

 


	6. A Night of Neglect

_At first glance, the choir room is empty when she walks in, but when she looks to her left, she realizes she's not alone—Mr. Schue is writing something on the whiteboard, his back to the door._

" _Mr. Schuester? Where is everyone?"_

_He turns around and grins at her. "Wow, Quinn," he says in that genuinely enthusiastic tone he gets when he has no idea he's being an asshole, "you look like you're ready to pop!"_

_She looks down, surprised to find that she can't see her feet because her pregnant, swollen belly is in the way. "I forgot," she says dumbly, but when she looks up again Mr. Schuester is gone, leaving her staring at big, block dry-erase letters._

_The theme this week, apparently, is HONESTY._

_She knows she has to find Mr. Schue and the rest of the glee club—ballots for prom court are due, and she needs their votes. She sets out in search._

_The hallway is empty, but she can see Sam lingering at the end, by the windows. She starts making her way towards him, but is jostled from behind by a burly arm._

" _Sup, MILF?" Puck says in passing, breezing past without even the slightest acknowledgment of the fact that he knocked into her. By the time she realizes just why his elbow was jutting out in the first place, it's too late—Puck is long gone, and Sam's dripping from head to toe in Cherry Slushie._

" _I am so sorry," she says, looking around for anything to help him dry off, but he pushes her hands away._

" _I don't need your help, Quinn. You've cleaned enough of my messes as it is."_

" _But—"_

" _Seriously. Stop trying to fix me up," he orders, and his dark eyes bore right into hers. "Besides, they're waiting for you in the auditorium."_

_As if on cue, Rachel Berry's voice starts floating through the hallways, strong and crystal clear._

" _Don't let me keep you," Sam says, and Quinn follows the music._

_She almost slams right into Finn when she enters the theater. He's standing in back, eyes rapt and adoring as Rachel belts her way through the ending of Reflection from Mulan—and Quinn remembers with a pang that she'd promised Stacey to sing that one day. She's jolted from her thoughts by Finn clapping and cheering; the song is over._

" _Woo!" Finn catcalls, cupping his hands over his mouth to carry the sound. "That was awesome, Manhands!"_

" _Don't call her that," Quinn snaps, tired of always having to correct his behavior in public. "It's rude."_

" _But you do it."_

" _Not anymore," she says, like it means something, and then flinches as the baby kicks._

" _I thought we were close enough to be honest with each other," Rachel says, coming down off the stage and looking at her earnestly. "What did you think of my performance, Quinn? Did I get it right?"_

" _All you did was what I wasn't brave enough to do," Quinn says, because Mr. Schuester's just walked in, and if he catches her not following this week's theme, he'll be pissed._

" _What are you guys still doing in here? They're about to announce the results!"_

_And suddenly she's on stage in the gym, and she bites down hard on her embarrassment, knowing she looks like a whale in her stupid maternity dress._

_She wasn't supposed to still be showing by now._

" _And now," Principal Figgins says, "your votes have been counted. May I present your 2011 Junior Prom court: Finn Hudson and Lucy Fabray."_

" _It's Quinn," she corrects thickly, choking on air, but no one hears her over the sound of the roaring crowd._

" _Relax," Finn says, "we've got this."_

" _Where are our crowns?" she asks, and he smiles at her._

" _What are you talking about? You know that's not how we do things here." With that, he takes her hand and leads her off the stage and onto the dance floor. Students gather around them, but slowly she realizes they aren't empty-handed._

_Every single one of them has a Slushie in their grasp._

" _Finn—"_

" _Boys and girls, let's give a real McKinley welcome to your prom king and queen!"_

_She braces herself, wincing as the freezing cold torrent of dyed corn syrup hits her, and—_

With a gasp, Quinn jolts awake, feeling more tired than she did when she fell asleep in the first place.

Fuck.

* * *

She feels half-dead in school. After nearly setting herself on fire in Chem lab and then being forced to participate in PE by Coach Beiste, she almost bursts into tears of gratitude when she remembers they're watching a movie in History. Luckily Roots is pretty boring—aside from the small moment of excitement when Artie and Mercedes start imitating the arm movements of the African tribal dance from their seats—so she has no trouble at all napping through class.

Her exhaustion makes it totally impossible for her to hide her surprise when someone shoves a cold plastic cup at her as she packs up after the bell. She recoils instinctively, but when she looks down, it's not a Slushie but a frozen coffee drink in her hands.

"Told you I'd catch you later," Mercedes says with a bright smile, nudging the cup more firmly into Quinn's grasp. "Seriously, take it. It's my third today, and you look like you could use the caffeine. No offense."

"… Thanks," Quinn mumbles, trying not to seem utterly bewildered.

* * *

Sam and his siblings are subdued on the ride back from school that day. At first, she doesn't think anything of it. And then they get to the motel, and the oppressive atmosphere becomes downright unbearable.

Something's different. She can tell as soon as she walks through the front door; it doesn't seem quite as cramped as usual. And still, no one's talking.

"Did you guys move some things around in here or something?"

Sam shrugs, and she frowns. Despite the fact that he's keeping his financial situation from their friends, he's not exactly a secretive person—something's definitely off.

After another sweep of the room with her eyes, it hits her. The stack of crates in the corner… they're gone.

"Sam. You sold your comic books?"

"And some other stuff. Got pretty good money for some of the collector's items," he says, aiming for nonchalance, but he deflates at her stricken look. "I'm not exactly happy about it either, Quinn, but it was either them or the guitar."

She clears her throat and glances quickly to the side; they're both acutely aware of his siblings' presence in the room.

"Stevie, why don't you take Stacey and play outside for a little while?" Sam suggests.

"What—by myself?"

Sam shrugs. "Don't think you're up for it, Half Pint?"

"No, I totally am! C'mon, Stace," he says, grabbing his sister by the hand and pulling her back towards the door.

And then they're alone. Quinn leans back against the couch, watching Sam scratch awkwardly at his arm.

"So… why the guitar?"

"It's dumb."

She smiles at him. "You're not dumb, Sam. Pretty, but not dumb."

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn't grin back. "It's just… the comic books… I knew them. I've read all of them a million times. And I love those stories, but, like. The guitar? You can learn how to play it, but you can't memorize it. You never know a guitar by heart. There's always something… new. And I didn't want to…"

He looks away.

"Sam. That's not dumb."

There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Quinn moves to the window to keep an eye on Stacey and Stevie; Sam stands there, staring at his shoes, until he just can't take it anymore.

Moving to the corner, he picks his guitar up and brings it back with him to the couch. Halfhearted strumming grows purposeful, and slowly but surely, his fingers start working their way through Billionaire. Quinn looks up, but stays silent.

(Here's a fact: the first time he heard Billionaire on the radio, he thought about how, if  _he_ were a billionaire, he'd be like Bruce Wayne. He learned the chords because he could and he was bored; when Finn asked him to pick a song, he picked that one because feeling a little bit like Batman when you're singing in front of people for the first time can only help.

…When he strums through those chords now, it's not Batman he's thinking about.)

"You're gonna be late for work," she says gently, after a while.

He sighs, and puts the guitar back in its place.

* * *

He kind of takes his time, coming home that night. He thinks about hitting up the landfill, but he hasn't been back there since he took Quinn last week, and now it seems… different, somehow. And the weirdest part is, he's not even angry. Just tired.

God, he is so, so tired.

The front window's open—probably to let in the breeze, or something—and he can hear the girls talking quietly as he makes his way up the porch steps.

"…so I decided that David  _Sullivan_  should be my boyfriend, and not David Fordham." Sam shakes his head. Stacey's had 'boyfriends' for about three years now; it's actually kind of the cutest thing ever. "Quinn, can I tell you something?"

"Of course, sweetie. What's up?"

"You know last week I said I wanted to play castle with you, but then today I said I wasn't in the mood?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, that was a lie. And Sam asked me not to talk about it, but he  _also_ says not to lie, and Mom and Dad and Mrs. Cole and and Reverend Andrews and everyone all say not to lie, too, so that's more important, right?"

"Stacey… what are you talking about?"

Sam all but holds his breath, straining to catch every word from his spot outside the door.

"I wanted to play castle with you but I  _can't_ because over the weekend we had to sell a lot of stuff, so I can't be princess because I don't have my crown or my scepter or my dress anymore. And Sam said not to say anything about it, and he always makes me and Stevie go outside when you talk about this stuff and I don't know  _why._ "

Suddenly he wishes he'd beaten the crap out of some junk at the landfill after all.

"Honey…"

"We're always losing stuff," Stacey concludes sadly.

"Stacey, being a princess isn't about what you  _have._ It's about what you  _are._ Like… okay. Who's your favorite princess?"

"Princess Leia," she responds immediately, and pride shoots through Sam.

Quinn laughs, but it's warm, not cruel or mocking. "Okay. Why?"

"Because she bosses the stupid boys around when they don't rescue her right, and knows stuff. Also her hair is really pretty, even when it looks like it shouldn't be."

"Not because she has crowns and jewels and dresses and everything?"

"She doesn't have that stuff; she's from  _space._ Also, they blow up her planet, Quinn," Stacey says in a bratty, know-it-all sort of voice. Sam clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle his unexpected laughter.

"Well, there you go. I… sweetie. I know it sucks that you're always losing stuff. But she lost  _everything,_ and she's still your favorite princess. Right? So maybe instead of playing castle, we should…" Quinn trails off, then rephrases. "Maybe you should think about being that kind of princess."

"I know. But sometimes I just wish…"

"I know." Sam's hand is on the doorknob when Quinn adds, "Tell you what. After I win prom queen, I'll bring by my tiara, and you can be a princess for real. Okay?"

Most of the time, when Quinn talks about being prom queen, it—well it kind of gives him a wiggins, to be honest. He always hears this creepy-ass tinkling piano tune in the back of his head, like even though Quinn is smiling and laughing and being friendly, she's really just trying to hide the fact that she's planning to bring a knife to school and kill them all.

(He hasn't told her so. He's not  _that_ stupid.)

This doesn't feel like that, though. This feels like… it's just not something he's used to, from Quinn, and even though everything still sucks, suddenly he can't wipe the grin off his face.

"What are you still doing awake, Squirt?" he asks, walking in. "If Stevie's asleep, you should be too."

"We were having a girl talk," Quinn says, before turning and winking exaggeratedly at Stacey, who giggles. "But I think she's ready for bed now."

"Girl talk, huh?" he says, leaning in and tickling Stacey's stomach. "Glad I missed it, then. Wouldn't want to get cooties."

"Cooties aren't  _real,_ Sammy."

"Are so. I had them in junior high and everything; had to be taken out of school for a week, just like chicken pox. I bet Quinn did, too. Didn't you, Quinn?"

He turns around to face her, but somehow she's managed to grab her purse and backpack while he was looking at Stacey, and is practically halfway out the door. She looks distinctly uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"Um, yeah. I—have to go. See you tomorrow."

"…G'night."

He has no idea what that was about, but… well, it's not like she'd tell him if he asked.

* * *

On some level, it does register that it's kind of hypocritical and crazy of her to focus on winning prom queen so hard when the whole point of her lesson to Stacey was that material things don't matter. But honestly, all she can think about is how badly she needs that crown—not just for her own sake, now—and how terrible a slacker she's been about the whole thing.

It's time to stop fooling around.

"Finn, we need to go shopping for a prom dress," she informs him at lunch the next day, dropping her tray down with a clatter and taking the seat next to him.

"…We do?" he asks. Without asking for permission, he trades the sundried tomato and hummus wrap Kurt clearly made for him this morning for her pudding cup, which they both know she doesn't want.

(It's the most comfortable she's felt with him in days. No matter what else is happening, at least like this, right here, they fit.)

"Of course we do. Your outfit has to coordinate, so we really can't waste any more time."

"But I thought that, like, I'm not supposed to see the dress until the night of?"

"That's weddings, Finn," she says, but the intended sharpness in her voice bleeds away at the idea. She smiles hesitantly. "It could be—fun."

"Uh, okay. When?"

"Friday?"

"I can't. Every other Friday is family dinner. You know that."

_If you want your man, you gotta fight for him, Q,_ the voice in her head that sounds like Mercedes sasses, and she grits her teeth.

"I do know that. But I was thinking maybe we could go out after school, and then… we could…  _both_  go to back to your place?"

Finn thinks about it, then lights up. "You know, Kurt's actually been hoping to bring Blaine home for dinner now that they're official, but he hasn't wanted to interrupt, like, family time. But if you come, too, the pressure is totally off!"

So not what she had in mind, but… she can compromise. "That sounds great," she says, pasting a smile on her face.

"You're the best, Quinn!" he says, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek.

Funny, how she doesn't really feel like it.

* * *

"Do they have to be so… poofy?" is the first thing out of his mouth when they walk into the boutique.

Much as he makes her want to roll her eyes, she's inclined to agree. The amount of tulle and sequins this season is… heinous. Everything in their immediate line of vision is garish and tacky, and the last thing she needs is for Finn to think it's all going to be like this. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. "Mine won't be. I promise."

"So now we just gotta, like. Find it?"

"Yeah."

He seems relieved. "That doesn't sound so bad."

And for the first three stores, it's not. She has good taste and a good eye, and he's interested in seeing her wear evening gowns, at least, and keeping his attention isn't as hard as she'd feared.

But by store #4, his interest and her patience are flagging.

"Who are you texting?"

"Um. No one."

She's pretty sure  _no one_ means  _Rachel,_ but—she's the one going to family dinner in an hour, and she's the one going with him to prom, so. She can let it slide.

Really. She can.

* * *

"Grub'll be ready in just a minute," Burt says, "so you kids just hang tight out here, okay?"

"I think we can manage, Dad," Kurt says, an amused smile on his face, and Burt disappears back into the kitchen.

"So what were you guys doing all day?" Blaine asks from his position on the loveseat.

Finn groans, flopping on the couch overdramatically. "Prom dress shopping."

"Already?"

Both Kurt and Quinn whirl on Blaine, offended by his blasphemy.

"Of course  _already,_ Blaine, are you crazy? Quinn's too smart to wait. If she doesn't want any dress repeaters, she has to stake a claim early, and avoid all the major outlets and department stores."

"Not to mention," Quinn adds, "Finn doesn't want to match any 'girly colors,'so we're limited to blues, greens and dark reds."

"I like orange," Finn mumbles defensively, and she glares at him.

"But I can't pull off orange, because I'm not  _Mercedes._ "

"She's right," Kurt nods. "Though really, Finn, the fact that you won't give her purples is a tragedy. Lilac is perfect for your skin tones."

"Oh, come on, dude, seriously?" Finn complains, twisting around on the couch to look Kurt in the eye.

"Blaine?" Kurt asks, seeking backup. Blaine startles, looking uneasy with the attention suddenly put on him.

"You could pull off lilac," he tells Finn in a reasonable sort of voice, "but I don't think anyone should be forced into doing anything that makes them uncomfortable."

"Which is why I demand that you remove those nightmares from your feet this instant, Quinn Fabray; we have  _talked_ about this."

"Oh, are these the ones?" Blaine asks, climbing around to try and get a look at Quinn's shoes. "The—what did you call it. Girls Gone Laura Ingles Wilder?"

"It was Lilith Fair on the Prairie, but yes."

"Guys," Finn whines, "can we please talk about something that isn't clothes for like five minutes?"

Blaine laughs lightly. "Um, have you  _met_ Kurt?"

"I agree with Finn," Quinn says, sitting down next to him and tucking her feet under herself. "Let's change the subject."

"I'm only looking out for your best interests, Quinn," Kurt says, but Blaine's already talking over him, rolling his eyes affectionately and asking Finn if he caught the game last night.

And that's kind of the theme of the evening, really. After a few empty smiles from Carole and tentatively genuine ones from Burt, Quinn fades into the background and Blaine steals the show. She doesn't know how he does it—he's just got this uncanny ability to make every single person in a room feel like they're his best friend and he's on their side. Normally she'd distrust someone with that kind of charm, but she can't bring herself to with him. If anything, she suspects that the fact that he's accommodating to a fault is a defense mechanism—a way to keep himself from being a target the way Kurt was.

But then, the only other person like that whom Quinn has ever met is Rachel, and it's not like that tactic ever really worked to her advantage.

(And really, the idea that somehow Blaine Anderson is, in fact, the gay son that Mr. and Mr. Berry tried to raise their daughter to be is nothing short of hilarious. No wonder they'd enjoyed their drunken make out session so much; it was practically self-gratification.)

"What's so funny?" Finn asks, leaning over to whisper in her ear.

She shrugs, smiling. "Nothing. I'm just… glad to be here."

Across from them, Kurt and Blaine subtly link hands under the table, and it's all she can do to hold her jealousy at bay.

She's always been a competitive person. So really, it's a foregone conclusion that she'd slip off one of her shoes and start running her foot up and down Finn's calf. His ears go bright red almost immediately, and she bites back a smirk.

Take that,  _Klaine._

* * *

She's poised and ready to escape the evening unscathed, getting her jacket from the coat rack by the door, when Kurt catches up to her.

"No more stalling, all of you. Shoes. It's time for a verdict."

"Oh my God, Kurt, really?" she asks, wanting badly to laugh it off but finding it hard to lighten up.

"Yes  _really._ I take fashion very seriously, Quinn, and if Blaine and I don't have compatible tastes, our relationship might not survive. I need to know."

Blaine just winks at her from over Kurt's shoulder, and she sighs and steps forward to be judged. Making a humming noise, Blaine walks in a slow circle around her, hand at his chin.

"I don't  _not_ like them," he finally offers, gallantly. "They're… vintage."

"But—" Kurt sputters, and Blaine chuckles.

"But, the stark earth tones really don't work with the color palate of your wardrobe. So clearly the answer is to buy  _more_ shoes, not get rid of these ones." He turns to Kurt. "See? Compromise!"

"I… suppose I could find that acceptable," Kurt allows.

And, seriously. Hanging out with Blaine is kind of like suddenly finding yourself trapped in a Disney movie—she wouldn't be surprised if songbirds actually help him get dressed every morning—but she can only take so much, and she ran out of tolerance like half an hour ago. "Yes, because I have the time and money to get a million new pairs of shoes when I'm supposed to be finding the perfect prom dress."

"Hey, don't sweat it," Blaine says, smiling at her earnestly. "We're just joking around. And I know that the perfect dress is just waiting for you somewhere. Give it time; you'll find it."

(Honestly. Who  _says_ that stuff?)

* * *

It's too late for her to get into her own car and head over to Sam's by the time Finn drops her off, so she takes out her cell without even thinking about it. She doesn't need much—even a brief, typo-ridden text in response would be enough right now.

_**Dress shopping was a bust. Should have just stayed in with you, S and S. How was your night?** _

It's a half hour before her phone goes off; she scrambles for it.

Message from: 1-330-025-1987 **  
PATIENCE - - - Blaine**

She sighs, and flops face-first down onto her bed.

* * *

She can tell Sam's trying to hang back when glee ends on Monday, so when Mike invites Finn over to his place for a CoD marathon, she just smiles, kisses his cheek and tells him to have fun, and takes her time gathering her stuff together.

(Besides, Mr. Schuester just kind of abandoned his fifty bajillion boxes of saltwater taffy, and someone's going to have to sort and distribute it. She can already tell that's going to end up her job. Because somehow, that's how the universe works.)

"Is this right?"

"Huh?"

She turns to find Sam examining the whiteboard, which now—after Mr. Schue's adjustment for the Brainiacs—reads  _ **5,250 x .25 = 21,000.**_

"I know I'm not good at this stuff, but—this is so not right, right?"

"Not even a little bit," she confirms with a dry laugh, but she can't maintain the mood. Biting her lip, she mumbles, "I've been texting you all weekend. Did something happen to your phone?"

"Oh. I, uh. I canceled it."

"What?"

"Just… Mom and Dad still need theirs, for jobs and for emergency contacts and stuff. But my data plan alone was, like… I don't need it. It'll be a bitch, but anything that saves us money is worth it. What did you text me about?"

And suddenly her prom dress drama with Finn seems ridiculously insignificant.

"Nothing, just… it's not important."

He looks like he's about to argue, but shuts his mouth when he catches a good look at her face. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she assures him in a clipped tone, and waits, shoulders tensed, for an argument that never comes.

(It's probably a little bit twisted that she expects him to demand she cut the bullshit when, whenever he does, she shuts him down and tells him not to, but… she probably would have opened up, if he'd pushed a little harder.

It's her own fault. You teach people how to treat you. And she's been in Sam's world long enough to know his rules.)

* * *

Sometimes—maybe even most of the time—she can barely tolerate Finn's company. Other times, like now—when he just holds her, quietly, smelling like he does and being who he is—it feels like it's the only place she really fits.

Mercedes is going to be the death of her _._

She's always depended on Mercedes to be her daily dose of sanity, but now… it's like her whole world has gone backwards. And she doesn't know which way to turn to adapt.

"It's like she's a stranger," she says quietly, past the point of caring that she hates Finn seeing her cry. "She used to be my  _best friend._ I don't know what to do."

"Look, maybe we should… ask for help. Like, maybe Rachel could, I dunno—talk to her or something. She gets all of that diva stuff."

The last thing Quinn wants to do is have a one on one conversation with Rachel Berry  _ever_ again. And it's mortifying, to think that she needs to go to  _her_ for advice on how to deal with someone she cohabitated with for two months and still considers—well, a friend, anyway.

"I don't know…"

"Come on, Quinn. We're kinda out of options."

He's right, but she's never felt more pathetic than when she links her hand in his and says, "Okay, but… come with me?"

And considering the colossal train wreck that is her life, that's saying something.

* * *

"Quinn, am I doing this right? … Quinn?"

"Huh?" Quinn mutters, jerking awake, and winces as her neck whips forward and her hair stays behind, caught. "Sorry, sweetie, I think I dozed off. What?"

"Am I doing this right?" Stacey repeats, leaning over Quinn's shoulder from her position behind her on the couch, holding her hair loosely.

"Well, lemme see," Quinn says, feeling around on the floor for the hand mirror. After a brief examination, she clicks her tongue. "Well, it's—it's not  _wrong,_ exactly, but what you're doing is giving me a Dutch braid, not a French one."

"What's the difference?"

"With Dutch braids, you cross the hair under, instead of over. So it looks like the braid is sticking out from your head, not tucked beneath your hair. They're both really pretty; you can keep doing it this way, if you want."

"No," Stacey says, picking at her creation, "I wanna get it right. Can I start over?"

"Of course you can," Quinn assures her. (God, she misses when life was that easy. When just undoing it all and beginning again was always an option, if you made a mistake.) As Stacey starts running her fingers through her hair to comb it out, Quinn says, "You know, last year, I used to braid my hair a different way every single morning."

"Why?"

_Because I didn't have the Cheerios anymore and needed to feel like there was even one thing I could control._ "Just wanted to experiment, I guess. So I did 'em on the side, and in back—tiny ones, big ones… you can get really creative with it."

"Will you teach me?"

"Absolutely," Quinn murmurs, swaying a little with the push and pull of Stacey's hands at her scalp.

"How many kinds do you think there are?"

"Of what? Braids?" It's getting a little hard to keep track of the conversation; she'd forgotten how soothing it is, to have someone's hands in her hair.

"Yeah."

"I dunno. Dozens."

"How much is that?"

"A dozen is twelve. So, twelves and twelves of braids," she mumbles, letting her eyes fall closed. Just for a second.

"Can you get to a hundred that way?"

"Yep."

"Two hundred?"

"Mmhmm."

"Higher?"

"As high as you want…" she breathes, and before Stacey can start asking her next question, Quinn's drifted off completely.

* * *

Later, Sam walks in to find Quinn passed out at the foot of the fold-out couch, Stacey's Dora the Explorer Snuggie draped carefully over her; Stacey curled up in bed, sound asleep, and Stevie nose-deep in an Encyclopedia Brown book, reading quietly by the desk lamp.

"Quinn fell asleep," Stevie informs him, as if he can't see that, and he feels a rush of gratitude for how mature his brother is. His babysitter falls asleep and he's just sitting there, being good. Reading for fun.

"She been out long?" he asks, walking over to her, and Stevie shrugs.

"Awhile. Stacey only fell asleep like ten minutes ago, though."

"Quinn. Quinn, wake up." Sam shakes her shoulder gently, and smiles as she blearily blinks herself into awareness. "Hey. Up and at 'em."

"Sam? Why are you…?" she looks around, and he can see the exact moment that her surroundings register written all over her face. "—Oh my god."

"Hey, chill," Sam says, because the amount of panic in her eyes makes his chest feel tight. "No big deal. Stevie held down the fort—didn't you, Half Pint?"

"Stacey wasn't going to brush her teeth before she laid down but I made her," Stevie responds dutifully. "Cuz I knew she'd fall asleep even though she said she wouldn't. And I gave Quinn a blanket so she wouldn't be cold."

"See?" Sam says, feeling kind of stupidly proud. "Everything was under control."

Quinn mutters something under her breath that he thinks might be  _Not me,_ and she's gathering her stuff up as fast as she possibly can.

He's kind of tired of her always leaving like this.

"Tell your sister she did a really good job with the braid," she says, bolting for the porch, and he follows her out instinctively.

"Quinn, hold up, it's not—"

"I am  _so sorry,_ Sam," she says, whirling around as the door closes behind them. "I can't believe how irresponsible—I swear, I've never done anything like that before in my life. It's just, I haven't been sleeping well lately, and planning the stupid Night of Neglect benefit has been a nightmare, and nothing's ready for prom, and I just—"

"Quinn— _Quinn._ Hey. Stop. Look at me. Am I mad?"

"No, but—"

"I trust you, and I trust them, you didn't screw up and everything's  _fine_ ," Sam says, and she fights the urge to squirm in discomfort at this unearned forgiveness. "And hey, after tomorrow night, the concert will be over, and you can go back to focusing on your campaign. Right?"

"I guess."

"So no worries. It's been a long week for everyone, you know? Everything'll be better after a good night's sleep. And—maybe this won't help, but, um. I could emcee if you want. The benefit."

"… Really?"

"Sure, why not? It'll be like I'm hosting SNL. I get to be all,  _Ladies and gentleman—Coldplay,_ and then the crowd will go wild, and then later, I can be awesome with my impressions."

Her mouth twists into a smirk. "Coldplay? Really?"

"Shut up," he laughs.

It feels like maybe they should hug, or something, but seeing as she didn't after her meltdown at the dump—and this is hardly that level of intensity—she can't really justify it now.

"Thanks," she mumbles instead, scuffing the porch with her sneaker.

He frowns. "For what?"

"I don't know. For being a normal person?"

He laughs. " _Kea tìkin_."

"… Sorry, what?"

"It means you're welcome."

"I thought that was… whatever it was you said at the junkyard. You said something else."

He studies her curiously, clearly impressed she'd remember that much. "Well, yeah. There are plenty of different ways to say you're welcome in Na'vi. Just like in English. That night, I said  _hayalo oeta_. Y'know. 'You'd do the same for me.' Tonight I said, like—no need to thank me, it was nothing.  _Kea tìkin._ "

"… I take back what I said about you being normal."

"Thought you might," he grins.

Wonder of wonders, she finds it in her to grin back.


	7. Born This Way

"Quinn? Can I… talk to you for a second?"

Every second she's in Rachel's company kind of feels like the life is being drained out of her, like Rachel's made of Kryponite and Quinn's Supergirl or something—and God, she really needs to start hanging out with people who aren't Sam again—but she tries to keep her face neutral. She owes Rachel one for doing… whatever it was she did for Mercedes, and they both know it. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I… I know I have no right to ask, and I'll understand completely if you say no, but… I'm going to a consultation about my nose tomorrow. And I just…"

Realization dawns on her. "You weren't kidding, in glee. I wasn't an arbitrary example. You actually want my nose."

"Not your nose  _precisely,_ but it's just a good…" Rachel pauses and takes a deep breath. "It's a guideline, and if you accompany me to the doctor's office they can… we can test it out."

She should be disgusted. She should be appalled, or insulted. She should probably, at the very least, feel guilty, but honestly all Quinn can manage is to be flattered as hell.

"Of course."

Rachel looks completely taken aback. "Wait, really?"

"Sure; why not? Part of being prom queen is giving back to the less fortunate, right?"

Rachel's hesitant smile falters a little. "... Prom queen. Right."

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence, and Quinn fights the urge to fidget.

"So… do you need a ride, or something?" she asks bluntly. She's had enough experience lately to know that she is capable of being polite, in general—Rachel just makes her feel  _this_ awkward.

"I'm already inconveniencing you enough, Quinn, I'd hardly expect you to drive me. My appointment is at six; I'll pick you up by five thirty at the latest."

There are lots of things she could say to that, but in the end, Quinn settles for, "Okay."

She neglects to mention it to Sam that night.

* * *

As she pulls up to the corner of Maple and Jefferson to drop Sam off the next morning, she knows she can't avoid it any longer.

"Hey, hold on," she says as he's pulling off his seatbelt. "Just so you know—I can still give you a ride, but I can't babysit today. I have to go to the doctor's office with Rachel. Do you think Kurt could fill in for me?"

Sam frowns. "Um, yeah, probably, but—look. About that. Quinn, don't you think you're being kind of… mean? Helping her do this?"

She freezes. It's just absurd, because… first of all, in the Ballad of Rachel and Quinn, there are so many items on the list of mean things she's done that nothing from this year should even  _register,_ but—she's seriously not trying to be hurtful here. For once in her life, she actually understands what the hell is going on in that inflated Jewish head,and Jesus, she's honestly trying to be  _nice_ for a change, and this is what she gets for it? Something vicious twists in her chest.

"Nice hair color, Lemon Juice—born that way?" she spits.

She wishes she hadn't trapped herself in her car, but she's stuck; she can't do anything but look at the wounded puppy dog look on his stupid face, hating him and hating herself and  _despising_ Rachel Berry for, once again, ruining the only good thing Quinn had going for her. He doesn't say a word; just grabs his backpack from between his legs, opens the door, and walks away.

She and Sam don't talk for the rest of the week.

* * *

He just doesn't get why this is even happening.

He barely ever sees Santana anymore, but when he vaguely asks her about it, she just says, "Stay away from Berry; she'll steal all your gold." He's not sure if that's a dig at her being Jewish or at her being, like, leprechaun-short or whatever, but either way, it wasn't a very nice thing to say. But that's the thing: Santana isn't nice to anyone, so he expects it _._ Quinn, on the other hand…

Quinn has  _always_ singled Rachel out. She basically told him as much, when she turned him down the first time he asked her to be his duet partner—she said she needed a way to keep Santana off her heels, a way to torture Rachel, and to learn to ignore people. And even though he doesn't really agree with them, he understands the first part and the last part. But the weird fixation on Rachel?

He just doesn't  _get_  it.

* * *

Rachel sings in the car. Quinn doesn't know why she's surprised; Rachel sings everywhere, but apparently she can't concentrate on the road unless there's music on, or something, so Quinn's subjected to the musical stylings of Rachel's iPod on shuffle for the duration of the twenty minute ride to the clinic.

Her tastes are eclectic; it's not all Broadway hits, and Quinn can appreciate that at least—even if it is a bit disturbing to be trapped in the passenger seat while Rachel sings her heart out to Rihanna's Only Girl. (Imagining Rachel Berry being 'taken' in her bedroom is just… not a mental image Quinn will ever want or be prepared for.)

The silence is awkward, but thankfully Rachel seems to realize that it would be even  _more_ awkward to attempt any kind of conversation.

When they get to the waiting room, she crosses her legs and flips through a magazine, doing her best to maintain the appearance that she and Rachel do this all the time. (Distract, deflect, defend. Ensure a vote for prom queen while you're at it.) They make small talk, kind of, but then—

"So what's it like? Looking like you look."

And it just sort of tumbles out of her: "I pretty much have a warped sense of the world. Being a hot seventeen-year-old, you can get away with or do anything you want, so I kind of always assume that people are always nice and accommodating." Her fake smile feels stretched and unnatural on her face, and God, she sounds like a  _crazy_ person. (Honestly. Even Quinn recognizes that everything coming out of her mouth is psychotic. So why is Rachel just sitting there and taking it? She knows better. Quinn knows she knows better.)

The doctor walks in before Rachel can actually respond, and she's introduced as 'Rachel's… friend, Quinn,' which is… new.

She's going to have to take like three showers when she gets home before she'll feel clean of this entire experience.

They go into the examination room to take pictures, and her chest tightens when she catches a glance at the look of utter defeat on Rachel's face. It hits uncomfortably close to home, and she has to blink  _hard_ to keep herself from doing anything mortifying as the lab technician asks her to turn her head, camera clicking away.

She still remembers all too well what it's like to be the girl on the other side of the photograph—and if Rachel's not crying, Quinn won't, either.

Because this?

She can  _fix_ this.

It's only on the ride back into Lima, when I Feel Pretty comes on shuffle and Rachel starts belting along happily, that the first seed of doubt plants itself in Quinn's stomach. Because she feels like a lot of things, but pretty's rarely one of them, and Rachel should probably… know that, before she does this.

But before she can get up the nerve to say anything, the iPod's gone on to the next song, and Rachel's laughing. "I think my shuffle has a sense of humor today. Or at least irony."

"I haven't heard this song in years," Quinn murmurs, surprising herself by still knowing all of the lyrics.

"You like TLC?" Rachel asks, eyes flickering to her for a moment before training themselves back on the road; Quinn shrugs, singing along quietly.

For a moment, it's just them and the music, and when they reach the chorus they split naturally; Quinn takes the lower harmony, Rachel the higher, and there's no denying how well—however unexpectedly—their voices fit.

She can only attribute what happens next to temporary insanity.

"We should do a mash-up of these. For our glee assignment."

By the time she registers exactly what it is she's said, it's too late to take it back, and Rachel's gaping at her. "We?"

"Um... sure. Why not?"

( _Insanity._ )

"Well, I just figured... don't you have plans with Finn?"

"He's actually going to do a dance number with Mike, so…"

Rachel's mouth twists in amused disbelief, and Quinn watches as she tries to school it back into nonchalance. "I'm sorry, he's what?"

"Oh, don't even get me started," Quinn says with a smile, and it suddenly sinks in that she's, like,  _joking around with Rachel Berry,_ about  _Finn_ of all people, and where are they, the freaking Twilight Zone? But Rachel's already in crazy mode, chewing on her lip and thinking so hard Quinn can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

"We'd probably have to change the key to accommodate… but that will sound good, actually, if we add a string sec—we're doing it. We can't not do it. I'll make the arrangement tonight," Rachel says, and Quinn's already lost count of all the ways this is a terrible idea.

* * *

A little after 9:30 that night, Quinn gets an e-mail containing a Finale file of sheet music, several mp3s (a karaoke track, a track of her part alone to learn off of, and Rachel's track to harmonize against), and a Word document with the lyrics.

_You can sight-read, can't you? If not, we can push everything back a day, but if I'm correct about your capabilities, I think we can pull this off without too much rehearsal. Meeting in the choir room over lunch tomorrow should be sufficient._

_Despite the rather disastrous results of our last collaboration, I'm confident that this will be a stellar performance! :) :)_

_Yours,_

_Rachel Berry_

It takes everything she has not to throw up when she opens the files and realizes again just what it is she's agreed to do.

* * *

There's a plate of cookies in the shapes of stars sitting on the piano when she walks into the choir room at the bell. Fear creeps up on her when she imagines what the hell Rachel might have to apologize for today, but she imagines I'm Sorry cookies would probably say  _I'm sorry_ on them, and tries to calm down.

"Those are for later; I don't want us to get phlegmy right before we sing. But you're welcome to them," Rachel says, coming up behind her. She jumps.

"Um, thanks. Are you ready to get started?" she asks, as various band members start filing in. She has no idea how Rachel convinced so many of them to perform on such short notice, but she doesn't really care enough to ask.

Rachel watches the door intently, and as the last guy walks in—the floppy-haired kid who always plays bass for them, who Quinn thinks is named Josh, or Joe, or something—she smiles. "All set. Whenever you're ready, Quinn."

She takes a breath and begins. "I wish I could tie you up in my shoes, make y—"

"Hold on, no, no, stop, stop, stop," Rachel says, waving her arms around, and Quinn bites down on the irrational rage that flares through her. "Quinn, what are you doing?"

"Singing?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Clearly, but why are you using your head voice?"

"What?"

"You're breathy. Singing from the back of your throat instead of through your nose. If you want volume, you have to channel the sound."

"Not all of us have had a decade of vocal training, Rachel," Quinn grits out, trying hard to keep her temper in check.

"… I'm being overbearing," Rachel announces after a moment, as if she's only just realized it for the first time, and her eyes soften a little. "I'll try to lighten up. Try it again, Quinn."

She cues the band, and after a moment, Quinn sings, "I wish I could—"

"Stop, no, I'm sorry, this isn't going to work." Quinn opens her mouth, but Rachel just talks right over her. "If you do it like that, my voice will overpower yours completely. And we want people to be able to hear you over me, don't we?" (Quinn can't help thinking that would pretty much be a first, musically  _and_ metaphorically.) "I've heard you do this before, I don't know what the problem is. It's like you think the song is higher than it… is…" Rachel trails off, and she brightens. "That's it!"

"What's it?"

"It's because I transposed it. See, you're used to the first note you sing being here," Rachel says, walking over to the piano and playing a note. "That's G. Because I moved the song up, your first note is here—B flat." She plays a different note. "You're psyching yourself out about the difference between them. But really, you shouldn't worry about it. One of the reasons I changed the song in the first place is so it would sit more comfortably in your range. Now you won't have to reach for the low notes, like you would have if I'd kept it in the original key."

Quinn rubs at her temples. "You realize I only got about half of that, right?"

"What I'm saying is, the problem isn't with your voice, Quinn. It's all in your head."

"Thanks for that, that's great," she snaps, then takes a deep breath. "So how do I fix it?"

"You have to visualize it. The fine muscle control involved with singing… you can't force it to happen. But when you ascribe a mental image to the sources and pathways for your air, your body responds naturally. So when you sing, just imagine that your voice is coming from right—" Rachel reaches out, fingers only inches from Quinn's chest—then seems to think better of it, retracts her hand and presses her palm right against her own sternum. "—from right here."

Quinn closes her eyes. "Okay." After a few more seconds, the music starts, and she opens her eyes when she comes in at her cue.

If Rachel's beaming smile and two thumbs up are anything to go by, she's figured out the chest voice thing.

A cookie is pretty much the last thing she wants, by the time they're through, but Rachel insists, so she takes it with her on a little paper napkin. If this were any other week, she'd track down Sam or slip it into his locker or something. But it's not, and she can't, and…

Anyway, the cookie ends up in the trash.

* * *

She knows she hasn't been acting like herself lately. She's never been a physically affectionate person, but she finds herself practically glued to Finn's side these days—leaning on him, hugging him, resting her head on his shoulder. Sophomore year, when she did that, it was always about territory. Staking her claim, showing everyone what belonged to her.

Now it mostly just feels like if Finn's not holding her together, she's going to crumble to pieces, and if she doesn't cling to him tightly, he'll just drift away.

(Sometimes she looks up at him, wanting nothing more than to ask  _Why do you like me?_ Because lately he's the only one who does, and frankly, she can't understand why. But the question dies stillborn on her lips every time. She just doesn't think she can handle the answer.)

"Rachel, please don't do this. You're beautiful," Finn says, in front of everyone.

Some part of Quinn—and she knows exactly which, because it answers to another name—has been waiting years to hear those words.

It only figures that when they're finally said, it wouldn't be to  _her._

(She shouldn't be surprised. Rachel's been taking things that belong to her since they met. What's one more thing off the list?)

* * *

His week has  _sucked_ so far, so he's actually pretty stoked when Kurt pulls him aside after seventh period his first day back. (He doesn't miss her. He just misses… having someone.)

"Sam Evans, I have been looking for you everywhere. I require your unique services."

"Are you okay?" he asks immediately. "Is Karofsky leaving you alone?"

"What? Yes, yes, everything's fine. I mean, aside from the fact that he's visually assaulting me with that atrocious red beret and poly-blend jacket, but—not the point. I need your help, and you owe me for babysitting."

"What's up?"

"Puck and I are staging a little Barbravention for Rachel at the mall."

"A what?"

"A Barbra Streisand-inspired intervention. We're going to stop her from getting her nose job."

"Oh. Why don't you just call it that?"

Kurt pats him on the shoulder. "You're lucky you're so cute," he says, and then gets serious again. "So, are you in?"

"Um, sure?"

It doesn't occur to him until later that he's going to have to ask someone for a ride, because there's no way in hell Quinn's invited to this, and even if she was, she wouldn't go.

The flash mob actually ends up being super fun, except… Quinn's the only kid from glee not there, and it kind of sucks because part of him feels like if someone would do something like this for her, she wouldn't feel like she had to—

Well. That's not quite true. But it bugs him to see her left out.

Especially when he isn't sure if it's everyone choosing Rachel, or if Quinn's the one doing it to herself.

* * *

She's never actually just left in the middle of the school day before. She's skipped classes, sure, but she's always spent them in the library or under the bleachers. But just running away? Never. She draws a line in the sand between tactical retreat and sheer cowardice.

But then, she's never had to deal with her own face—her  _real_ face—staring out at her from every single bulletin board in McKinley before.

She just can't take knowing she's being watched like that.

She can't take the look of disappointment.

* * *

After the news about Lucy Caboosey gets out, things make a little bit more sense. He hasn't seen Quinn in school since it happened, and to be honest, he's a little—okay, a lot—worried about her.

What he doesn't expect, though, is that he's not the only one.

"Quinn's sad without you," Brittany says without preface, dropping into her seat next to him in Remedial English. (There's something really fucked up about the Ohio school system when he, Brittany and Becky Jackson are all in the same program loosely labeled 'special needs,' but it's this or flunk out of the normal American Lit course, and whatever, it's kind of nice to have  _one_ good grade every semester.)

"Um, what?"

"You used to hang out, and now you don't, and she's sad because she's a duckling."

He considers asking how she knows about him and Quinn, but for someone who has a reputation for not being very bright, Brittany kind of knows everything. "She's what?"

"Everyone told her she was ugly, and she wanted to be a swan but she was actually a duckling, and now everyone knows. Which sucks, because Quinn's actually really good at ballet. Coach Sylvester made her teach us because she said it would make us look less like inflexible cows."

"I'll… keep that in mind," Sam says slowly, because he's not entirely sure what she's talking about and class is starting, anyway.

(That night, he has a nightmare about Quinn erupting in black feathers, eyes glowing red as she shouts "I am the Prom Queen!" and oh,  _that's_ what Brittany meant.

… he thinks.)

* * *

She wasn't sure how Finn would react when she let him know he was off the hook for prom king because her campaign was clearly over, but she'd suspected the news would perk him up.

The last thing she expected was that he'd ignore the conversation completely and start digging through his wallet.

"Can I show you something?" he asks, pulling out a picture, and—oh God. She's going to have a panic attack. She's going to have a panic attack, right here, and there's nothing she can do to stop it. "S'my girlfriend," he says, waving Lucy around for the world to see. "I used to have another photo, but. I like this one better."

She's forgotten how to inhale. With effort, she manages to choke out, "Why? She looks terrible."

"You think so? Cuz I think it's the first one where you can really see her," he says, staring at the photo intently. She wishes he'd put it away. She wishes he'd look at  _her._ She's not that girl, hasn't been in ages, and this is supposed to be right but it doesn't feel…

She pulls him in for a kiss and thanks him, because it's the only way she can think of to end this conversation, and then lets herself have a complete fucking  _meltdown_ in the bathroom as soon as he's gone.

On her way from there to rehearsal, three girls she's never met before in her life assure her that Lucy has their votes, and Zizes tracks her down for an apology.

The least she can tell Lauren is that she respects her for being as ruthless as she is, and it's nothing less than the truth.

* * *

As far as Mr. Schuester is concerned, their performance of Born This Way is a rousing success, and they'll all go home filled with sunshine and rainbows and never have a self-critical thought again.

The second the number is over, she's out of formation and all but sprinting away from the auditorium. Her skin is  _crawling_ —she needs  _out_ of this t-shirt and  _out_ of these skinny jeans. ( _Skinny jeans._ The concept is vulgar. Not too long ago, she would have felt proud—or at least pleased—about the sizes of the clothes she's wearing; now, it just feels like they're squeezing her to death. The t-shirt may be labeled Lucy, but this body is all Quinn: lithe and classically beautiful and hard-earned… and so fucking  _wrong_ that she can't stand it.)

"Quinn—Quinn! Hey, wait up."

"What, Frog Lips?" she snaps, spinning around to face her pursuer.

Sam doesn't even bat an eyelash. "It's kind of rude to yell at people like that," he says mildly, and she hates herself for missing him so much.

She takes a deep breath and counts to five, but she still sounds defeated when she asks, "What do you want, Sam?"

"You've had a rough… well, I was gonna say day, but. Um. Rough week, really. And I want to take you out to dinner."

The tension is back in her shoulders in a heartbeat. "Are you  _crazy?_ " she hisses.

"Well, it's just—I have this gift certificate to Breadstix laying around in my locker? Kinda been waiting for a special occasion."

"Sam…" she murmurs brokenly, and oh,  _fuck her,_ she is not going to  _cry._

He looks up and down the hallway, then grabs her wrist and leads her to a slightly more secluded spot. "Look. You've been taking care of me for weeks. Okay? And then you needed me, and I didn't take care of you. Lemme fix it."

"You didn't take care of me because I'm a  _bitch._  I don't deserve help, Sam, and we can both stop pretending."

"You're not a bitch. You just want everyone to think you are, and I shouldn't have been stupid enough to fall for it."

"You're not stupid. Don't say that."

"Come to Breadstix with me."

_Honey, just give in,_ the Mercedes in the back of her head advises, and she sighs.

Clearing her throat, she asks, "Can I at least change first?"

"You can if you want. But I'm not gonna."

He says it nonchalantly, but she can tell what he's doing—pressuring her into wearing it while allowing her the illusion of control. It's kind of sick, how well he knows her and the shit she pulls.

What's even more sick is the fact that not only would he never use it against her, but that it would never even occur to him to try.

* * *

So, Quinn ends up wearing her shirt out with him out of solidarity.

He tries not to read too much into it.

Because really, that's just Quinn. She may be the girl who'd rather break into his locker and steal the ring he  _offered_ her than just take it when he asks the first time, and who made him pay for dinner when there was a gift certificate  _in her hand,_ but… she's also the girl who said duets don't work for her but hasn't sung a single solo all year.

He watches her pick halfheartedly at her salad, and he can't even imagine how triggering this whole week has been.

"I think you're being brave," he says in a low voice, "for wearing that."

"You asked me to."

"No, I mean… at all."

She laughs, but it doesn't really sound like laughter. "This isn't courage, Sam. This is politics."

"Still, though. You don't see me wearing something that says Brunette."

"Yeah, well, you're not going out for prom queen."

He chuckles, and she glares at him. (It shouldn't still catch him off-guard—the fact that Quinn doesn't really…  _do_  humor. He's already out of practice with her, and that kind of really bums him out.) Sobering, he says, "I mean it, Quinn. Like… I didn't want anyone here to know how badly I wanted it. Being cool. I lied to Kurt about my hair. I just… it was easier, to pretend I was always…"

"Yeah."

"But I wasn't always. Popular, I mean. And, like, if Finn hadn't pressured me into trying out for glee club…"

"You'd probably be happier."

He blinks at her. "Really? Because I was gonna say I wouldn't be happy at all."

"Why?"

He smiles. "Because I like to sing. And the fact is, those guys—whether they know it or not—they're being pretty cool to me this year, when I'm not on top. What's the point of being popular if you can't do what you want?" At her expression, he laughs and adds, "Try not to be so surprised that I listen when you talk."

She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. It's an old habit—one that disappeared halfway through sophomore year, when suddenly her anxiety over her stomach got a lot more important. But she doesn't even feel like that Quinn anymore. She feels like Lucy.

It's never been a feeling she's liked.

"Quinn… Would you really do it all over again, if you had the choice?"

"In a heartbeat. Even if I were just as lonely now as I was then—and I'm  _not—_ back then, everyone could tell. If they didn't hate me, they pitied me. Now I'm going to be prom queen. People envy me. They want to  _be_  me."

"Is that why you tried to help Rachel?" he asks gently.

She says nothing.

"Look, Quinn. Maybe you're right. But, like. If you're just as miserable now as you were then—"

"I just said I'm not—"

"—then what does what you look like matter?"

Her eyes flicker to his own meal, which he's barely touched.

He stops pushing, after that.

* * *

Things are still a little raw between them, but as she drives him back to the motel she feels brave enough to venture a soft, "So. You and Santana…?"

"Don't."

She doesn't.

* * *

She's still not entirely sure where they stand on Sunday, but five minutes before the service starts Sam's suddenly hovering in the aisle next to her, asking "Can I borrow Quinn for a minute, Mrs. Fabray?"

"Oh, you take as long as you want. Go ahead; sit with your friends, Quinnie."

The use of plural is generous on her mother's part, but Quinn nods anyway and slides out of her seat.

"What's up?" she asks as he leads the two of them towards the back row.

He picks a seat and leans forward, digging through the shelf below the chair in front of him. "Got something to show you," he says, pulling out an old junior high yearbook from beneath the bible and hymnal.

"Sam, what…?"

He flips through the pages intently as she takes the seat next to him, finally settling on one and leaning over for her to see. "That's me," he says, pointing at one of the pictures. "Before football and the lemon juice."

The first thing she notices, honestly, is how short and dark his hair used to be. When she thinks of Sam, she thinks of floppy blond tresses softer than her own, and he doesn't look like himself without them. The other differences register slowly—his braces; the baby fat that gave him a pudgy, soft-around-the-edges look.

"The other kids didn't really know what to do with me. I liked comic books like the nerds, but I was in all of the dumb kid classes and needed extra time on tests and stuff. They called me Stuporman."

She raises an eyebrow. "No, they didn't."

"Yeah, okay, no they didn't. That would have been kind of awesome, actually. But the rest of it is true."

Her eyes flicker down to the picture again. "You were cute," she says in a raw voice, unable to stop herself.

"And now we're even," he grins in response, and before she can reply, Reverend Andrews invites them all to stand for worship.

They ignore each other in school on Monday, but then, they always do. In any case, he's waiting for her when she pulls around to their secret spot three blocks from McKinley after school, so she figures things are finally okay.

It's district-wide Fire Safety Week this week, and while at the high school this just means a few new posters to be defaced by the time Friday rolls around (though admittedly, she'd had a nightmare the night before of Mr. Schue chasing them all down the hallways with sheet music to Disco Inferno—but for once sanity seems to be prevailing), at the elementary this means a special after-school assembly where the kids get to climb around fire trucks and pet dalmatians. All of which means that she and Sam have a spare hour and a half to kill before they need to pick up Stevie and Stacey.

On a whim, she decides to take them to Barnes and Noble.

It's funny, what happens when they get there. They split up—him gravitating immediately to the Newsstand to look at comics; her starting in Non-Fiction and working her way through the store, wandering the stacks and waiting for something to catch her eye. She finally decides on _Tales From The Jazz Age,_ because, well—whatever, she actually really liked  _The Great Gatsby—_

(No, she didn't—she loved it. She loves Fitzgerald. She loves his lazy, evocative language; she loves his worlds populated by greedy bastards and dreamy teens; she loves that Zelda was crazy. It feels familiar and makes sense to her in a way that few things ever do, these days.)

—then swings by the in-store Starbucks for a pick-me-up. She grabs a simple coffee for herself and one of those fruity sparkling pear juice sodas for Sam, and when she tracks him down by the reading nook, he's found a bench big enough for them to share.

It's just funny, is all. It's easy, it's efficient, it's comfortable, and they manage to do it all without exchanging so many as ten words to each other.

And as she settles down next to him to read, she wonders if this is what codependency looks like.

* * *

Barely three pages in, she finds herself chuckling.

"What?" he asks, turning to look at her, shaggy blond hair falling into his eyes.

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"You'll think I'm making fun of you."

He frowns. "Okay,  _what._ "

She sighs and points down at the page. "I'm not trying to make a Trouty Mouth joke, okay, but—this line reminded me of you." He leans over, looking at the indicated sentence.

_Nancy had a mouth like a remembered kiss…_

"Huh," he says, and she looks up at him.

"What's huh?"

"Just… that's the first time anyone's ever made my lips sound kind of cool."

The same warm feeling she gets whenever she spends extended periods of time with Sam spreads through her chest, and she smiles at him.

( _L-like I need you,_ she'd stuttered at him, the first time she'd felt it creep up on her. And that hadn't quite been right.

But she thinks maybe she understands now.)


	8. Birthday Wishes

She's only just dozed off when she's woken up by her phone.

Message from: Puck **  
Come outside.**

She doesn't know why she bothers. All she keeps thinking is that she  _knows_ him, though, and this is either going to be a complete waste of her time or really, really important, and she's not confident enough to ignore him.

It's unseasonably chilly, when she steps out of the house and walks across her driveway to meet him.

"What do you want, Puck?" she asks, shoving her hands deep in her pockets. He's casually leaning against his truck like he's on her block all the time and any of this is normal.

"Gotta talk to you."

" _Now_?"

"Fuck's sake, Fabray, it's barely past midnight; what kind of teenager are you?"

"If you've got a point, make it," she says, and he sighs heavily.

"Lauren brought it to my attention that we were kind of shitty to you with the whole smear campaign thing, and now that you guys are bros or whatever, she promised me under-the-shirt action if I made it up to you."

"… This is about prom."

He rolls his eyes, like,  _shit, woman, you deaf or something?_ "S'what I said."

"You called me out here, in the middle of the night, to talk about whether or not my feelings are hurt by you  _running for prom king._ "

"Jesus, Q, I don't—"

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get away from me," she grits out, torn between running towards him so she can push him into his car or possibly punch him in the face, and running as far away as she possibly can. "Get off my lawn, get out of my life."

"Quinn, what the hell?"

"You haven't talked to me in  _months,_ and now you're interested in making amends about  _prom_ so you can get into Lauren Zizes' pants? God, for about half a second, I thought maybe you were capable of acting like an actual human being. But no, I was wrong."

" _I'm_ not a human be—fuck, I'm not the one going all Carrie every day like prom is the most important fucking thing we'll ever do in our lives."

"Fuck you."

It's not the first time she's said the words out loud, or even the first time she's said them to him, but they both know this is different.

"Fucking psycho," he mutters as he gets into his car, and the second his taillights disappear around the bend she bursts into tears.

There's a text waiting for her on her phone when she finally makes it back to her room.

Message from: Puck **  
Fuck YOU, Q. Your the one who stopped talking to ME, and your the one who never wanted to talk about HER. I care about shit. I just got fucking tired of waiting for you to. Have a nice life.**

Grammar issues aside, it's probably the most accurate thing he's ever said to her.

* * *

"Are you free after school? We should spend the day together."

"… Um, what?" Finn asks, closing his locker and turning to get a good look at her. "Why?"

"Is it that strange that I want to spend time with my boyfriend?" Quinn asks, pasting on a smile.

"Well, yeah, kinda." At her glare, he quickly amends, "Not that I don't want to! That would be cool. But I was kind of hoping to finally beat Dionysus Park today, so…"

She raises an eyebrow. "The Greek god of wine?"

"What? No. It's Bioshock 2. I'm like  _this close,_ so… not that I don't want to hang out, or whatever. Really."

She leans in closer to him, pressing their bodies together. "Well, what if I came over and, y'know… watched?"

He frowns. "I dunno. It's kind of violent and stuff, Quinn. I'm not sure if you'd be into it."

"You can explain it to me. It'll be nice. Like… like watching you get a touchdown for me in football."

A slow smile starts to spread across his face. "You really want to? You won't be bored or anything?"

She kisses him softly. "How could I bored? I'll be with you."

And okay, maybe that was… a severe exaggeration. But she needs this relationship to work. She can make sacrifices.

* * *

They don't often see each other on weekends. She knows family's important to Sam, and that his parents hate the fact that they hardly ever get to see their kids—but she feels completely off-balance in every possible way, and she's pretty sure that if she doesn't get herself back on an even keel, she'll end up doing something phenomenally stupid and destructive. (It's something of a habit.)

Which is how she finds herself knocking on his motel room door on Saturday afternoon.

"Quinn!" His mother says, opening the door. "Hello, sweetheart, we weren't expecting you. Would you like to come in?"

His parents being nice to her will never not make her uncomfortable; she digs her nails into her palms and forces herself to keep eye contact. "No thanks. I was actually hoping to talk to Sam outside for a minute? I promise, this won't take long."

"Can I?" Sam asks, coming to the door from within, and his mother gives a small smile.

"Of course. Will you be going far?"

He turns to Quinn, who shrugs. "Nah. I think we'll just go for a walk. Back in a bit." He closes the door behind him and jerks his chin, and she wordlessly follows as he leads them away from the parking lot and towards the nearby picnic table. He clambers onto it, feet on the bench, and she slides in next to him.

Eventually, she has to break the silence.

"I need you to explain BioShock to me."

"Um, what?" he asks, half-laughing in a bemused sort of way. Clearly, that wasn't what he was expecting.

She bites her lip, but manages to keep her voice even as she explains, "It's all Finn ever thinks about. And I was only just starting to figure out the difference between Call of Duty and Black Ops, and now he's obsessed with something else, and… I'm tired of not being able to talk to him. You know about this stuff, right?"

"Not BioShock, no." She looks at him all  _and you call yourself a red-blooded American teenage boy,_ and he feels himself start to blush. "I don't… it's complicated."

"The game?"

"No, I—it's just a first person shooter; whatever. The reason I don't know more about it is…" he trails off, before finally mumbling, "it's kind of embarrassing, okay?"

"Sam, you've lost me completely. I promise I don't know enough about video games to know what's cool or not, so just… please?"

He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "I don't play BioShock because it's designed for Microsoft systems, and I made myself a deal a long time ago that I'd only use Nintendo platforms."

"Because…?"

"Because I don't see the point in owning something I can't play Zelda on." She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything he continues, "I mean, it's not like I own anything anymore anyway, that kind of stuff was the first to go when we lost the house, but… Okay, what?" he asks, because he can't interpret her expression.

"Why is Zelda embarrassing?"

"It's  _not._ Or at least, it shouldn't be, but—it's just  _better._ The stories are always really involved, and Link's just this stoic protagonist, and because he never speaks he can be whoever you want, and—I don't want to just blow shit up, y'know? I want to save the princess." God, he is  _bright red_ right now. He clears his throat to save face. "Why are you looking at me like that? I know it sounds really lame, okay, I just—"

"No, stop. First of all, I'm just impressed that you used the words  _stoic protagonist_ in a sentence." At his look, she quickly adds, "Because I didn't think video games were that deep; not because you're… God, Sam, you're dyslexic, not illiterate. Give me some credit. And just… that's not lame. That's… wonderful. And makes you sound way more like a man than anything Finn's ever said on the subject, for the record."

"You're still looking at me funny."

"No, I'm not."

"Quinn—"

"Did you call me Zelda once?" she blurts, and then snaps her jaw shut with a click, looking alarmed.

He didn't think his face could get any redder, but it totally does. "You mean, back when we were…?" She just nods her head, and he winces. "Um. Maybe. Yeah. But don't get pissed off, okay, because it's a compliment. You remind me of her. And not just because of your looks."

"Sam—"

"She doesn't just sit around waiting to be rescued. She does stuff. And she's a really good leader, and always puts everyone else's needs ahead of her own, even if that means she doesn't get to be happy. And… why are you  _laughing_?"

"It's not  _you,_ it's—" she pauses, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes as her shoulders shake, "—We were so messed up."

"What are you talking about?"

"When you called me that… aren't you even a little bit curious about why I didn't pull away?"

"Um, I figured after the Beiste thing you were just too scared to ask."

"I  _wish_  it were that sane. Sam, I  _liked_ it."

"Why?"

"Because I was thinking about Fitzgerald."

"… Uh, maybe this is, like, a stupid question, but—Fitzgerald who?"

"No, I mean, F. Scott. He's the one who wrote the line I showed you. Mouth like a remembered kiss?"

"Oh, yeah. But how does that even…?"

"His wife was named Zelda. Their relationship was… interesting, to say the least."

"Interesting like fun?"

"Interesting like he was a raging alcoholic and she ended up in a sanitarium." He makes a face, and she clarifies, "A mental institution."

"So you're laughing because…"

"I was fantasizing about making out with a completely dysfunctional famous author, and apparently you were imagining a video game character. It's just… funny."

And it's kind of not, really, but they laugh anyway.

It's better than the alternative.

(She still doesn't have the first clue about BioShock, but… honestly, she's finding it harder and harder to care.)

* * *

She fucking hates her dining room.

She hates the fact that they eat in the dining room at all, when it's just the two of them and they could just sit in the kitchen like a normal family. She hates the fake fruit centerpiece; she hates the mahogany detail work; she hates that her mother still takes the place she always has, leaving the chair at the head of the table perpetually empty—as if her father takes up room even though he's not here.

She hates that there is no  _as if,_ not really; he absolutely does.

But her mother had pulled the "I feel like we haven't seen each other in ages, Quinnie" card, and it's not like she has an argument against it, because it's nothing but the truth. She can't even remember the last time she was home for dinner.

So here she is.

"How are things with Finn?"

"They're… fine."

"Just fine?"

" _Mom_ —"

"I'm just so glad that he forgave you and the two of you are working it out. You're going to look so gorgeous together in your prom photos."

She breathes through her nose. "I know."

"Still no luck finding a dress?"

"No. We tried shopping together, but…"

Judy gives a knowing smile. "Boys will be boys."

"Yeah."

"Have you looked at limo companies yet? You know they jack up the prices the closer it gets, sweetheart."

"No, I—I think Finn's just going to drive me, this year."

"He's such a gentleman. But you know, that reminds me. I've been meaning to talk to you about something." Quinn says nothing—all she can do is brace herself. "I think we might have to sell your car."

Her fork drops with a clatter. "You can't. I need it."

"Oh, honey. I can give you rides to school, if that's what you're worried about," Judy says, concentrating on her salad. "It's just that… well, with your father gone, money's been so much tighter, and…"

Quinn pushes her plate away, suddenly feeling sick.

She's not stupid. She knows that her mother's job doesn't pay very well, and that even with alimony and child support, they're struggling. She knows that she has to keep her grades up to get good financial aid, and even then, she might have to go back to Sue Sylvester on her hands and knees and beg for a spot on the Cheerios next year. The schools she really wants—well, they're expensive, and if settling for a cheerleading scholarship to some state school is what it takes to get out of here, that's what she'll do. (The schools she really wants? Stanford. Maybe Columbia. It's not that she thinks she can get away forever; she knows there's no escaping the life ahead of her. But God, it would be nice to spend four years away from Lima, Ohio, no matter which coast she runs to.)

Even considering all of that, though, the fact that her mom is talking about money being tight when her best—when one of her friends is living in a  _motel_ is just… repulsive.

She takes a breath, and says evenly, "If things are still bad a year from now, we can sell my car before college. But right now, I need it."

Her tone doesn't leave room for discussion.

(And what it says about their relationship that  _her_ tone is the one that decides when conversations end… she doesn't even know what to do with that.)

* * *

Let's just start by getting one thing straight: she didn't  _forget_ Sam's birthday.

She's thought about it. She thought about it weeks ago. But when she'd brought it up, he told her on no uncertain terms to just drop it. ("It's not a big deal, Quinn. It's just a day. And, like… it's not like I could afford to keep anything you'd give me. So just leave it alone.")

But that was last month. Things are different now— _they're_  different, now—and she can't leave it alone.

Unfortunately, she's also out of time.

She's not too surprised to find that no one's waiting for her in the parking lot, when she drives up to the motel. After a moment, Stevie comes out to meet her, but instead of hopping into the backseat, he knocks on the passenger window until she rolls it down.

"Mom and Dad want you to come inside," he says simply, before turning around and walking back up to the porch.

What choice does she have?

There's a Happy Birthday banner strung up just inside the front door, and the only word she can think of for it is  _precious._  Sam waves at her when she walks in, blocked behind a human barricade—the whole family is huddled around the coffee table, eating cake.

"It's not very healthy, but it's an Evans tradition," Sam's mom says apologetically.

Mr. Evans smiles and shoves a paper plate in her hands. "Have a slice, Quinn."

She looks warily down at the frosting, and to be honest, the idea of ingesting that much sugar this early in the morning makes her stomach turn. But she recognizes the offering for what it is and takes a bite.

And really? It's not that bad.

* * *

The thing is… just because  _she_ knows better than to get Sam a present, doesn't mean anyone else does. To be honest, she'd kind of worried that someone would do something extravagant or expensive, and she'd have to watch Sam pretend to be excited about it.

She shouldn't have bothered _._

No decorated locker; no cake in homeroom. Nothing from any of their so-called friends. It makes her furious—mostly because there's basically nothing she can do about it.

"Hey. Isn't it, like, Sam's birthday or something?" she asks Mercedes nonchalantly before History.

"Shit, is it? Girl, you know me and mine abandoned Facebook for Twitter long ago. That sucks. Should we sing to him or something?"

Quinn gives her a look. "You want to involve  _Mr. Schuester_ in this?"

"Good point," Mercedes laughs, but sobers a little at Quinn's expression. "Look. Sam's a great guy, and popular. I'm sure someone has something planned."

It's barely even afternoon, and Quinn's already sure no one does.

* * *

She tracks down her last hope just before fifth period.

"Kurt, I need a favor. Can you babysit Stacey and Stevie after school today?"

He gives her an acid look, and she winces. Sam may've forgiven her for what she hears Kurt's calling Barbragate, but clearly, Kurt hasn't. "I think I've done enough of your babysitting for a lifetime. And besides, Blaine and I have a date at the Lima Bean; I can't."

"Look, this isn't—I know you've had to clean up a lot of my messes lately, and I know I haven't thanked you properly, but—this isn't about me, okay. It's Sam's birthday."

"What,  _today_?"

"Yeah."

A flash of guilt crosses over Kurt's face. "What do you have planned?"

"I don't know yet. But I've got to do something, and I can't if we're stuck with his brother and sister all day. I am so sorry, Kurt. I'll make it up to you, I promise. And—Blaine can come, if you want. He likes kids, right?"

Kurt snorts. "Blaine is like a puppy in human form; if he doesn't love kids, I'll eat my hat. And it's Gucci, so you know I mean business."

"So you'll do it?"

"Quinn, it's his  _birthday._ "

She reaches out and tangles her fingers with his, squeezing gently. "I don't deserve you."

"Who does?" he shrugs with affected pretension, but the smile he gives her is very real.

* * *

She cuts out of school during lunch. She has no idea where she's headed—only that it's entirely on her to fix this, and she can't drive back until she has a plan.

Eventually, she ends up at Blockbuster.

"How many films based on comic books do you guys carry?" she demands of the guy at the front counter. She's wasted too much time already to go wandering the shelves. He smacks his gum in response, and runs a hand through greasy hair.

"Um, we don't really have a genre in the system for that. I can search by Action & Adventure…?"

"Just give me an estimate."

The guy silently counts on his fingers, making a list in his head, and shrugs. "Like at least twenty."

She bites the inside of her cheek, thinking hard. Her original idea had just been to rent whatever they had and go from there, but—seriously, why would there ever need to be more than, like, five superhero movies, ever?

"Can you put them on hold?"

"What, like… all of them?"

"No, just—oh, forget it. I'll be back later."

* * *

She's at the grocery store picking up snacks when she gets the text.

Message from: Finn Hudson **  
Couldn't find u at lunch + u weren't in spanish. U ok?**

She winces against the stab of shame that suddenly pierces her, and takes a breath before she responds.

_**Didn't feel well, had to go to the nurse. Went straight home.** _

Message from: Finn Hudson **  
Aw man, that sux.**

Lying to him is nothing new, but lying about  _this_ … she can't handle the squirming discomfort in her chest. It feels like she's been caught doing something wrong, and the fact that she probably is really doesn't help.

_**Any chance you picked up my homework for me, because I wasn't there?** _

Turning it around so  _he's_ the guilty one isn't exactly her most mature move, but… she's been doing it ever since they met.

Message from: Finn Hudson **  
:( totally didnt think of that, sry.**

Message from: Finn Hudson **  
No way 2 give it 2 u N E way. Tutoring w/ mike then inventory duty at the shop**

_**It's fine. I'll see you tomorrow.** _

Message from: Finn Hudson **  
Think u'll feel better?**

_**Definitely,**_ she taps out. Hesitating for a moment, she then adds,  _ **Love you.**_

Message from: Finn Hudson **  
U 2.**

She's a terrible person.

* * *

She has just enough time to drop everything off at home and get some things set up before she has to go back to where she started and pick Sam up from school. He seems fine, for the most part, but she can tell by the slope of his shoulders as he walks to her car that there's a big difference between  _saying_  "it's just a day"and having everyone treat it like it is.

"Hey," he mumbles, throwing himself into the passenger seat.

"Hey yourself. Why so blue?" she asks, hoping for a Na'vi joke, but he just shrugs and stares at the passing trees. She decides to let her route do the talking for her.

It doesn't long.

"Um… Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"Where're we going? Did you figure out a shortcut or something?"

"No; Kurt's gonna watch Stacey and Stevie today."

"Why?"

She gives him a Look. "Gee, maybe because it's your birthday?"

His eyes flicker towards the window, and she just barely hears him mumble, "No one else cared, so."

_Really?_

She pulls up to a red light and takes her hand off the wheel to squeeze his knee, looking him in the eye when his head whips around at the contact.

"I do," she tells him seriously.

He clears his throat. "So, like. Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"Is it… bigger than a breadbox?"

She snorts. "Could you  _be_ more lame?"

"Laugh it up, fuzzball," he whines, exaggerated swagger in his voice.

"Was that a reference?"

"Han Solo!" he yelps, offended. "You honestly don't recognize  _Han Solo?_ "

"Sam, I wasn't really raised in a Star Trek—"

"Star  _Wars_!"

"—kind of family."

"Don't give me that; you're totally trolling me. I know you know the difference. Stacey made you watch Star Wars when you didn't know who Princess Leia was."

"I knew who she  _was_ , I just didn't—"

"Whatever, Fabray," he chuckles. "I'll convert you yet."

"You keep telling yourself that, Evans."

After a long moment, he shakes his head. "Okay. I'll bite. If it wasn't Star Trek or Star Wars… what kind of family  _were_ you raised in?"

"Republican."

If it were anyone else, it would have been a killer punchline. Seeing as it's Quinn…

He laughs his head off anyway. It's his birthday, so she lets him.

* * *

"Blockbuster?" he asks as they walk through the front door. "I mean, I'm not complaining, but—this is your big secret birthday surprise?"

"I tried to come in here earlier and, um, rent every comic book movie ever made, but apparently there are  _way_ more than I thought there were, and I didn't want to get something you don't like."

He smiles at her like he knows a secret she doesn't. "How many can I get?"

"Three.  _Not_ counting the Lord of the Rings," she amends immediately at his excited look, "because those are all like fourteen hours long."

"Oh, come on, the extended editions are only—"

"The answer's no, Sam. Pick something else."

"You're no fun, Quinn," he scoffs, before wandering off to look at the selection.

It's something she's heard many, many times before. Sam's the first person to ever make it sound like maybe it's not entirely true.

"Have you seen this?" he asks, poking his head around a shelf and holding out a box set of the Back to the Future trilogy.

"I don't think so? If I have, I was way too young to remember it."

"Yeah, fixing that," he says.

* * *

"Oh, ew!" Quinn exclaims, laughing at the screen. "She has a crush on her own  _son_?"

"She doesn't know who he is!"

"You know, between this and Leia making out with Luke—" Sam gives her a smugly triumphant look, which she ignores, "—I'm starting to get really concerned. Is incest, like, a  _thing_ for geeks?"

"What? No!" he sputters defensively, then frowns. "Well, I mean. I guess there's Quicksilver and Scarlet Witch, but that's only canon in alternate universes, so—"

"Hold on; phone."

Message from: Kurt Hummel **  
Blaine wants to play Sam's guitar, but is too chicken to ask. That okay?**

"Blaine wants to know if he can play your guitar," she relates, and smirks in amusement when Sam twists uncomfortably on her couch. "Oh, come on, seriously? Blaine is like the most responsible person on the planet. It's not like he'll break it or something."

"I tune my guitar a half-step down; he's gonna mess with it."

"If you don't want him to, I can just say n—"

"No, it's—fine. I'm not gonna be a douche. Just tell him to be, y'know. Gentle."

_**He says sure, just be careful with it.** _

Message from: Kurt Hummel **  
Blaine would also like to congratulate Sam for coming of age in the wizarding world. I have no idea what this means, but he insists Sam will understand.**

"Now what?" Sam asks.

"Um. Blaine also says… congratulations on coming of age in the wizarding world?"

Sam bursts out laughing, and she waits patiently for him to finish.

"It's a Harry Potter thing," he explains, when he's gotten a hold of himself. "Turning seventeen is a big deal, if you're a wizard. Don't roll your eyes, okay, those books are awesome, and the fact that you haven't read them is insane. I don't even know how you're a person."

"My older sister brought the first one home and my dad almost  _burned_ it. Probably would have, if it hadn't been a library book. He thought it would make us devil-worshippers."

"That's all such bullshit. I actually started reading them because my old youth pastor in Tennessee said—"

"Tell me later, okay, I have to text Kurt back. Watch the movie."

_**Apparently it's some kind of Harry Potter thing.** _

Message from: Kurt Hummel **  
How did we come to associate with such complete nerds?**

_**You don't even get to talk. I'm the one stuck watching a Back to the Future marathon.** _

Message from: Kurt Hummel **  
Our social lives are a cautionary tale for why you shouldn't join glee clubs.**

_**It's a curse.** _

"Stop talking to Kurt; you're missing it."

"What's to miss? Boy meets mad scientist, boy travels in time machine, hijinks ensue. Also, incest."

Sam throws popcorn at her.

* * *

"So… good birthday?" she asks, pulling into a free space at the motel.

"It—yeah. Get out of the car for a minute?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to hug you," he says, and it looks like he's fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Um… okay," she mumbles, unbuckling her seatbelt.

By the time she gets out, he's standing at her door, and he wraps his arms around her without a second thought.

"Today was awesome, Quinn," he says, mouth right against her ear. "But, like. This isn't just about today. And I know we don't talk about it, or whatever, but… I don't know how I'd do any of this without you.  _Thank_ you."

"Sam…" she whimpers, voice breaking, and suddenly she's clinging to him as tightly as she can.

It's just that… she keeps waiting for it. That little pull in the back of her head, telling her to kiss him. She's been waiting for it for a month and a half, and it keeps not happening, and she's so incredibly grateful that she doesn't know what to do with herself.

She's never been able to trust herself like this before. Not with a guy. Not with anyone.

"You wanna come inside for a minute? Say hi to everyone?" he asks, pulling away.

"No, I—that's okay. I think I'm just gonna head home."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. I have to study for Pre-Calc, anyway."

He goes inside, but she idles with the engine off until the sound of Blaine, Kurt, Stacey and Stevie singing Happy Birthday in three-part harmony drifts out through the open window.

She smiles the whole drive home.


	9. Rumours

Finn's waiting for her outside of Pre-Calc when the lunch bell rings.

"How was your test?" he asks, falling into step next to her, and she smiles at the fact that he remembered.

"Not too bad. You ready for yours?"

He blinks at her. "I don't take Pre-Calc."

"No, I mean in Geology. You told me you had a test today practically a week and a half ago."

"…Crap," he murmurs, eyes going wide, and she runs a hand up and down his arm. "Can you, like. Tutor me over lunch?"

"I never took Geology, Finn," she reminds him gently.  _Because it's Rocks for Jocks, and anyone could pass that class,_ she doesn't add.

"It's cool. Maybe I'll just, like. Fake a headache. Puck's been doing it for years."

"Yes, because  _Puck_ is the kind of person you should have as a role model." She rolls her eyes, leaning back against the row of lockers while Finn enters his combination.

"But, like. Speaking of me forgetting stuff… there's something I've been meaning to ask you?"

"Go on."

"So, um. Prom," he says, and for a split second her heart actually  _soars_ before he continues. "Should I be, like. Saving up for a hotel room? Because I can do that."

… She doesn't even know why she's surprised.

"The Junior Prom is held in the gym, Finn," she reminds him, voice hard. Hoping she can reject him without actually rejecting him. "It's not like we can just go upstairs."

"No, I know that. I just know that this is super important to you and stuff, so… I just want to make it special for you."

Special for  _him_ , maybe. But she's been down that road before, and she knows where it leads, and she just… can't. "Finn…"

"God, I just don't  _get_  you! You said—" he cuts himself off abruptly, seeming to realize for the first time that they're still in a crowded hallway, and lowers his voice. "You said I should have been your first. That you made a mistake with Puck, but you belong with me."

"I  _do_ belong with you, I just…"

He sighs when she can't finish that sentence, and reaches for her hand. "I just can't figure you out, Q," he mumbles, playing gently with her fingers. "Like, you keep saying that you want me and stuff, but then we never do anything."

"Oh my God, are you  _guilting_ me right now?" she sputters, tearing her hand away.

"What?  _No!_  Quinn, I wouldn't—I'm not like that," he says, and honestly, she believes him. She knows she's not being fair. "It's just… it can be really confusing, being with you, and I don't really know what you want from me."

Her lips twitch into a half-smile, and she stands on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the lips. "I love that you're trying so hard."

"Yeah, well," he says, pulling away from her and closing his locker with a bang, "That's not really the same as loving  _me,_ is it?"

It hurts, that he's only ever insightful when he's pointing out things she's doing wrong.

* * *

"You goin' my way, doll?" Sam asks as he swings his backpack into the space at his feet and clambers into her car.

She raises an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be Elvis?"

"It's a work in progress," he admits with a shrug, and then looks at her closely. "Can I, uh, tell you something?"

"Of course," she says, putting the car in gear and heading towards the elementary school.

"Rachel asked me to prom," he says cautiously, and she grips the steering wheel hard, fighting the instant rush of possessiveness that floods through her. She's with  _Finn,_ and Rachel going with Sam means there's actually a slight possibility that she may leave them alone.

"And what did you tell her?"

"No, because I'm not going to prom."

"You're—what?"

He looks at her as if she's being dense. "I wish I could be there to support you and everything, but—get real, Quinn. Tux rentals and limos and stuff? I can't afford that. And watching everyone else be able to… it'll just suck. So no, I'm not going."

"Well, prom court ballots are cast in homeroom the day before, anyway, so you can still vote for—"

"She asked me if I was saying no because I was afraid of making Finn jealous," he interrupts, and suddenly Quinn loses her voice. Sam sighs. "Yeah. That's what I said, too."

"Sam…"

"It's just—I know you love him and all, but it kind of really pisses me off, the way he treats you sometimes."

She has no idea how to respond to that. "Can we please talk about something else?" she whispers.

He looks out the window, watching the town go by. After a long moment, he says, "I think I'm gonna have to sell my guitar."

She doesn't know what she was expecting him to change the subject to, but it wasn't that. " _What_?"

"We need the cash. And I was just gonna hock it at the pawn shop, but you got way more money for my ring than I ever could, so I was hoping maybe you could… help. Again."

"Sam, that's not what I was—I'm not going to help you sell your guitar!"

"Why not?"

"Because it means everything to you!"

"God, Quinn, grow  _up!_ " he explodes, and she swerves so badly that the honking from the other lane doesn't stop for a good ten seconds. He knows he needs to calm down, and that taking his anger out on her is a stupid, shitty move, but he can't help it. He's furious. "My  _family_ means everything to me. Okay? More than music, more than my comic books, and way more than stupid fucking  _prom._ And if this is what I have to do, then I'm going to do it, whether you help me or not."

She doesn't say a word. He watches her face, and she just—shuts down. Sets her expression into that neutral Quinn mask that used to be her default setting, and he hates himself for putting it there just as much as he hates her right now.

"Are you done?" she finally asks in a measured, steely voice, hands frozen at ten and two, and he has no idea how this conversation got away from them so fast.

It's utterly silent in the car after that.

By the time they reach the elementary school, he's calmed down enough to realize that if he doesn't say something, she never will; by the time they see Stacey and Stevie exit the building hand in hand and start walking towards them, he's realized that he really needs her to.

He sighs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that." She still won't look at him, so he adds, "Really. You're just trying to help, and I'm just… a dick, and really mad, so. I'm sorry."

"You're not a dick."

"Quinn, I don't have a problem admitting when I'm wrong, okay? I get in the car and say Finn doesn't treat you right, then almost get us killed for insulting you when you're trying to be a good friend? I'm not…" he frowns, then says instead, "My parents raised me to be a gentleman."

"And you  _are,_ " she says, and he's trying to take the high road here but the mask is gone and her eyes are all soft again, like she's letting herself be a person, and it's so easy to relax around this version of her. "It's okay. You're… If I were under the amount of stress you are, I'd have  _killed_ someone by now. And as much as I hate to say it, you're right."

"I am?"

She bites her lip. "Yeah. I'll talk to Jacob Ben Israel about it tomorrow. Your guitar, I mean."

Big mistake.

* * *

"What the hell is this, dude?" Finn shouts, storming into glee the next day. "'What blondie former cheerleader is having a secret moonlight motel rendezvous with another big-lipped blondie?'"

Quinn's head shoots up at the word  _cheerleader,_ and Kurt's at  _motel,_ but Sam's already stuttering in his own defense. "What is th—where does it say that?"

"Right on the front page of the school newspaper."

"You don't seriously believe this, do you?" she asks, grabbing Finn's elbow and forcing him to look her in the eye.

"Well why shouldn't I? Why wouldn't he do the  _same_ thing to me that I did to him?"

_Because Sam doesn't cheat,_ she thinks, but she says "Because it's gossip, Finn."

It sounds weak, even to her.

Before she can figure out a way to get control of the situation, Santana's stalking in, screaming at Brittany, and just—this is not going to go well.

"I'm gonna punch your face off!" Finn shouts, shoving at Sam.

"Hey, you've got a lot of nerve accusing me of cheating when you're the one who snuck in and stole my girl!" Sam retorts, shoving back, and it doesn't matter how many times she says "stop it" or pushes herself between them, they don't break apart until Mr. Schue literally separates them. (Why is it that, no matter what she does, her life always, always comes back to this?)

And Finn's leaving.

"Hey, Finn, where're you going? We have rehearsal!"

"Not today," he spits.

At least he doesn't kick anything on his way out.

* * *

They have to be more careful than usual, going home that day. She leaves practically the second Mr. Schuester gives the okay, letting Sam hang back to chat with people. It's twenty minutes before she sees him turn the corner in her rearview mirror, approaching their meeting place.

"I swear, I didn't tell Jacob whose guitar it was," she says when he climbs in. "Obviously he's been watching me."

"It's okay," he says, in a dead sort of voice, and she wishes she were the kind of person who was any good at cheering people up. But he needs it, so she tries anyway.

"So. Your girl, huh?" She means for it to come out light and joking, but all she can manage to sound is tired.

(She's sick of being fought over instead of just  _had._ And she and Sam aren't like that.)

Sam reads something on her face, and flushes the tiniest bit. "You know I didn't mean it that way. It's like—like Mercedes. Like,  _you mah gurl, Quinn._ "

She practically chokes. "… Never do an impression of Mercedes  _ever_ again."

"Made you laugh, though," he says with a hesitant smile, and she suddenly feels a powerful burst of affection for him. The fact that they function together makes no sense, but… well, the fact that either of them function at all is kind of a miracle, when she thinks about it.

"I don't think Jacob actually has anything on us. And even if he did, making a fuss about it or confronting him will just make it worse. Finn will get over it, and… as long as we're careful, everything will be fine. I'll stop parking in the motel lot. We'll figure it out."

"Maybe you shouldn't come over tomorrow," he mumbles.

It's hard to pretend that doesn't sting. "If that's what you want."

"No, s'just… Kurt's coming over anyway to bring some of his old clothes. I'm… you shouldn't have to deal with this. Y'know?"

"Sam, I've been dealing with this for months. I'm not going to stop just because—"

"I  _know_ that. I'm just trying to protect you, okay?"

"I don't need—"

"Yeah, well, apparently, you do."

For a tense moment, they sit in silence as he watches her face. But she just takes a deep breath, and chuckles. "You're really going to wear _Kurt's_ old clothes?"

"Shut up. If they're that bad or covered in sequins or something, I'll just give 'em to Stacey to play with." He seems to mull something over for a moment. "Would you be mad if I started calling you SeQuinn?"

"Yes."

"What about—"

"Don't push it."

(He follows her out to the porch that night, when she's getting ready to leave. Before she can ask him if she's forgotten something, he's hugging her, and—she's tired of feeling like she has to justify this. The world won't end if she lets Sam in. Hugging your friends is  _supposed_ to be routine; she thinks she can be okay with that.)

* * *

She gets mass texts from both Finn and Rachel as she's getting ready for bed the next night. They each say basically the same thing—that they're pulling rank as glee co-captains and calling a mandatory meeting at the Lima Bean before school in the morning, and that no one can tell Sam or Kurt.

Her insides turn to ice, and she's scrolling through her contacts and hitting Call before she can think better of it.

"What the hell is this?" she asks, as soon as the ringing ends with a soft click.

"I—Quinn, I'm not sure I know what you're—"

"Your stupid gossip-mongering session, Berry," Quinn hisses, already regretting not calling Finn. (But that would have been useless. If she wants to fix this, she has to go to the source.) "What the  _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Rachel takes a breath, before primly saying, "New rumors have come to light about Sam's involvement with—"

"What, and the fact that it's Kurt now means I get some kind of magical reprieve?" Quinn spits. "Gosh, I'm flattered."

"Finn and I felt that, as a good faith gesture towards your relationship, we'd give you the benefit of the doubt and let you—"

Quinn hangs up before she can finish.

The thing is, now she's stuck. She can't go to the breakfast meeting without stranding Sam and his siblings; she can't  _not_ go, or it'll arouse suspicion and make things even worse. She can't text Kurt about it, because he and Finn  _live_ together and carpool most days, which—how Finn plans on keeping him out of this, she has no idea, but she's dragged Kurt into far too much as it is—and she can't text  _Sam,_ because he doesn't have a fucking  _phone._

She grabs a hoodie and is out the door before her mom can stop her.

* * *

Maybe it's ironic that running is the only thing she's ever really felt good at.

It's just that… it's such a  _relief,_ to get away for a little while. Her whole world shrinks down to the pound of her feet against pavement, the burn in her chest and the even rhythm of her breathing. Everything else just fades away, and she can focus.  _Right, left, right, left, right, left._

She just doesn't know what to do.

Her cross knocks against her sternum with every stride, and she finds herself frowning. It's one thing for God to punish  _her_  for being a bad person, but dragging Sam and Kurt into it… she doesn't see a way to get out of this. The best she can hope for is going to the stupid meeting and praying that she can escape with enough time to drive back to the motel.

Her phone buzzes from inside her pocket.

Message from: Mom **  
Come home.**

Quinn keeps running.

* * *

She spends all of breakfast fighting the instinct to frantically check her watch. The last thing she needs is to look shifty or uncomfortable, but it's kind of hard to do that when everyone keeps looking at her like she's crazy for making perfectly reasonable statements. (Statements like "Kurt wouldn't cheat on Blaine," because  _he wouldn't,_ or "Sam's not gay," because  _he's not_.)

She knows she probably attracts undue attention by bolting so abruptly, but… whatever, she can't  _stand_ any of those people when they're like this. And she has places to be.

"Hey," Sam greets as they all climb in. "We were beginning to worry you wouldn't show."

"Unavoidable delay. I'll explain later."

"Was there an accident?" Stevie asks.

Sam laughs. "Jeez, Half Pint, gruesome much?"

"What's gruesome mean?" Stacey asks.

"Gratuitously macabre," Quinn says, entirely for Stevie's benefit. He always has his nose in a book; she's been dropping large vocabulary words for him lately, just to see what happens. Sam rolls his eyes.

"It's, um, gross. And scary. Like… horror movies. Or when Dad tries to cook."

Stacey giggles.

"I'm gruesome, too," Stevie announces.

"Sure are. I'm terrified," Sam chuckles.

"No, I mean. We measured me last night. On the wall? I'm a whole quarter inch taller. I  _grew some_!"

"… That was excellent, Half Pint."

Quinn breathes easy for the first time in days. It's strangely peaceful, listening to them banter, and she just lets the sound wash over her as she drives them to the elementary school. The ride is over far too soon.

"Be good!" Sam shouts out the window as his siblings cross the street. "Don't make anyone cry!"

Quinn laughs. "Was that directed at Stevie or Stacey?"

"Stacey."

"Stacey got in a fight?"

Sam snorts. "Please. She broke up with David Sullivan and he took it really hard."

"Heartbreaker."

"You have no idea. I fear for all of dudekind, when she hits high school and starts dating for real." He turns to look at her. "So… unavoidable delay?"

"Ugh. It's… I don't really want to get into it, it was just this stupid idea of Finn's, and—"

"Quinn… if the whole giving us rides thing is getting to be too much, my parents can… we can switch off days, or something."

"No!  _No._ Trust me, this is exactly where I want to be. I just…" She bites her lip.

"What did Finn want?"

Her first instinct is to lie, but she knows it would be useless. "The whole glee club had a secret meeting about whether or not Kurt's cheating on Blaine with you."

"They  _what_?"

"I know. I know. And I had to go, or they'd start looking at  _me_ again, and I just… I am so sorry, Sam."

He sighs. "It's not your fault. And, like… it's whatever. I'm not going to glee tomorrow, anyway."

"You're not?"

"Yeah. Greg's dropping off the work car at school, and I'm taking his shift. And, like, if it goes well… I think I might have to quit. Glee, I mean, not my job. We could really use the money, so."

She frowns. "Sam…"

"It's whatever, Quinn."

And really, the thing she hates most is that some stupid, petty part of her wishes she could just up and walk away, too.

* * *

Growing up, you end up getting told a lot of lies. That the world, for the most part, is a fair place; that if you work hard enough, you can be anything you want to be when you grow up. This won't hurt a bit; it's good for you; everything is going to be okay. Things get worse before they get better, and it's always darkest before the dawn.

She's been waiting for things to get better for seventeen years, and on the whole, they've only ever gotten worse.

Even now, hours later, she can't get her conversation with Finn off her mind. Well, that, and the stupid bridge part on their song, but having the two of them swirling around together in her head is basically the all-time greatest migraine recipe.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees that Sam's parents still aren't home yet.

He smiles, when he opens the door and sees her. "Hi."

"Hey. Can we talk?"

"Uh… yeah. Everyone else is asleep," he says, stepping onto the porch and closing the door behind him, "so we gotta stay out here."

"That's fine. I just needed to…" She sighs, and closes her eyes. "I don't even know what I need anymore."

"Rough night?"

"I was rehearsing for glee with Finn. We're doing an entire song about how he doesn't trust me; it's  _awesome._ "

"The Chain?"

"I Don't Want To Know."

"Oh. The harmony's pretty," he comments, then chuckles a little at her murderous expression. With a small smile, he walks over to the porch railing and tilts his chin up.

"I know, I know," she grumbles, moving to join him. "The atmosphere."

"You and Finn gonna be okay?"

"We've made it through worse," she says neutrally.

"Um, not to be a jerk, but, like—I kinda thought you  _broke up_ over worse."

"Not helping, Sam."

"Right. Sorry."'

For a moment, it's just them and the cicadas in the warm spring air.

"I hate that all of this is happening because it's me," she admits.

He frowns. "What?"

"Okay, not  _all_ of this, but—the rumors. You think people would be reacting like this if it were Rachel caught being near you? If this all started because you went to Mercedes' church, not mine? It's just… it's so stupid. I know that I've made mistakes in the past. And people got hurt. But I'm legitimately trying to be a better person, here, and it's like I'm not allowed."

"Quinn—"

"If I were doing something wrong, they'd  _know._ The first time I cheated, I got pregnant. The second time, I got mono. Seeing as I haven't contracted the plague or been stung to death by African killer bees, it's pretty obvious that I'm innocent."

Normally he'd laugh, but she looks so bitter and defeated about the whole thing that the only thing he can do is lean a little closer.

* * *

"Can I ask you a question?" he murmurs after a while.

Her first instinct is to say  _Of course, Sam, you can ask me anything,_ and she's really not entirely sure when that started being true. She clears her throat, and says, "I guess?"

He takes a deep breath, like he's steeling himself for something painful. "Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Cheat."

She's said it so many times, it barely even phases her. "I felt fat that day, and Puck got me drunk."

"On  _me,_ Quinn," he specifies, and she winces at his tone. "Why'd you cheat on  _me_?"

"I…" she starts, but when she chokes on the rest, his eyes flash.

" _Quinn._ "

"I don't know," she whispers.

"That's bullshit. Come on, don't screw with me. Whatever it is, I can take it."

She bites down hard on her lip, and repeats: "Sam, I don't  _know._ "

He blinks at her. "You… don't know."

"I don't know why I did it. I shouldn't have done it. I don't have a reason—I don't even have an excuse. I wish I did. I wish I could tell you something that would make it make sense."

"That's… really messed up."

She laughs in an empty sort of way. "You think I don't know that? Look, all I can tell you is that after I kissed him after the football game, he started chasing me, and it felt  _good._  Finn chasing me. Because when we were together it's like he was always looking at someone else, and I just… I'd waited  _so long_  for him to want me. But I shouldn't have let it happen, and I don't know why I kissed him in the first place. And none of that justifies what I did to you."

"…Is that an apology?"

"If it was, it was a pretty terrible one."

"Wanna try it again?" he asks, but he's smiling.

She takes a breath, and looks him right in the eyes. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"…Would it be weird if I said I'm not?"

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "I like what we have now. It's just… I dunno. You're like my best friend, Quinn. And I kind of like that better than when we were both using each other to be more popular, y'know?"

No one has ever said anything even remotely like that to her before, and suddenly she's  _really_ glad that hugging is a thing they do now, because she couldn't stop herself if she tried.

"Oh, hey," he chuckles, wrapping his arms around her in response, and then he just… holds her for a minute. Squeezing slightly, he mumbles into her hair, "It's cool if we have to, like. See less of each other for a little while. I don't want to fuck things up for you."

She pulls back, wanting to see his face. "No, don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Offer me an out. I'm not going anywhere, Sam. The rumors will blow over eventually—they always do. And even if that weren't true, I'm going to stick by you. Because… you're my best friend, too."

"Well, duh," he laughs. "You're not just figuring that out now, are you? Jeez, and they say  _I'm_ slow." He hip-checks her then, grinning like an idiot, and all she can think is how, even after all this time, she'd still burn down the world for him if she thought it would help.

Everyone else in that school can go to hell; she will take Sam's secret to the grave, no matter what Finn thinks or how many rumors they start about her.

* * *

Her performance with Finn goes… well, it  _goes,_ anyway. It feels wrong, like they're airing their dirty laundry in front of the entire club, but it's not like they'd be the first.

"Nice job, guys," Mr. Schue says, awkwardly, "but you might want to… smile more, next time."

"Yeah, it was lovely, but… I prefer Quinn's duet performance of Lucky with Sam better," Rachel says pointedly, seeking Quinn's eyes. "Since you and Sam have become a lot closer lately, maybe you guys should do duets together more often."

"Where  _is_  Sam?" Artie wonders. "Quinn and Kurt are both here today, so we know he's not doing the dirty."

"I know what you're doing," Quinn breaks in, needing them to get off this line of questioning. (Distract, deflect, defend. Protect Sam.) "You want Finn and I to stop singing together so that  _you_  can sing with him again."

"Frankly, yes," Rachel says, and Quinn fights the urge to roll her eyes. And people call  _her_ shallow? "Finn and I have amazing proven harmonies and when it comes to Nationals, I think it makes more sense for him to be paired with me."

"Well it's not happening. Not as long as Finn wants to be with me."

"Wait," Finn interjects, "I thought you said this relationship was about  _trust_."

"Oh, I trust you. I just don't trust her."

"Quinn, I don't think you can mandate who pairs up for Nationals, alright? Vocal Adrenaline doesn't need any help from us," Mr. Schuester says.

And she's just… had it. "I love being here, and I want to win. But my relationship comes first. I'm sorry, but—Finn, if you want to be with me? No more songs with her."

She breathes a sigh of relief when no one follows her out the door.

She's vaguely aware that her little outburst didn't make a lick of sense, and that probably half of it was a complete lie—and she isn't even sure which half—but… at least now all eyes will be on her, and not on Sam.

Mission freaking accomplished.

She's regrouping in the bathroom when she gets the text.

Message from: Kurt Hummel **  
Nice hustle out there. Though the angry maraca shake was maybe a bit much.**

Despite everything, she actually laughs.

_**It's not a maraca, it's a cabasa.** _

Message from: Kurt Hummel **  
Yes, well, mi cabasa es su cabasa. I'll take babysitting tonight. You need distance, and you've got more on the line than I do.**

She doesn't want him to do that. Mostly she doesn't want him to be right, and doesn't want this to be a problem, and doesn't want to sacrifice her few hours of sanity for the sake of maintaining appearances, but… she can't argue with logic.

_**Thank you.** _

* * *

She can tell Sam has something to say to her, the next morning. The expression on his face is inscrutable, and he's completely quiet until they've dropped off Stevie and Stacey and are on their way to McKinley. "Kurt told me about what happened at glee yesterday. Quinn:  _not_ cool."

She stiffens immediately, and all Sam can think is  _Shields up, Captain._ "It's none of your business."

"You made it my business when you said you were gonna leave the club if they sang together. They need you, and that's not fair."

"Like you aren't thinking of quitting, too."

"That's different. I'm trying to make good choices for my family. You're just being immature because you don't like sharing your toys. I don't get it, Quinn. Why do you hate her so much? Rachel's  _nice._ "

If it weren't so funny, she'd probably burst into tears. Or maybe she'd laugh if it weren't so pathetically sad, because suddenly she's lost control and Sam's all "shit, please don't cry" and she isn't even sure when she started.

What she doesn't say—what she can't say—is that that's exactly the problem. She doesn't trust Finn with Rachel Berry because Rachel's _nice,_ and talented, and driven, and organically beautiful in a way that Quinn Fabray, by definition, can never, ever be… and even though Rachel gets crap from everyone in school for being herself, it's still obvious who the better choice is.

It hasn't been Quinn in a long time.

Maybe it never was.

(That's probably the worst part, she thinks. That it's not like she could even blame him, if something happens. Sometimes she feels like she'd leave her for Rachel, too, if she had the chance.)

She pulls over at the corner, and before she even knows what's happening Sam's unbuckled his seatbelt and is awkwardly hunched over the center console, hugging her from the side.

"Sam, stop," she mumbles, reaching around his arm to wipe at her eyes, and she can feel him snort against her neck.

"Um,  _no._ "

"I'm just being pathetic. Things are bad enough as it is; come on, before someone sees us."

"You think I care about that right now?" He pulls back just enough to run a hand through her hair. "Yeah, Rachel's nice. But she's not  _you._ And I pick you any day, okay?"

"Yeah, well," she mutters, "You'd be the first."

He groans in frustration and then pinches her hard in the side, making her yelp. "I'm serious. You mah gurl, Quinn."

"Oh my God, get out of my car," she orders, but she's laughing.

* * *

She doesn't think it's unreasonable to blame it all on Rachel.

Because, really. If she hadn't done that stupid song, with Finn  _and_ Puck—and seriously, is Quinn the  _only_ person who remembers Run, Joey, Run?—then Quinn wouldn't have had to defend herself, and then none of this—

" _Don't you think it's maybe a little inappropriate that you chose to sing a love song to my guy?"_

" _You're such a hypocrite, you Little Miss Perfect Prom Queen. You're a cheater, who cheats in cheap motels with Sam!"_

" _Nothing is going on between Sam and I!"_

—would have happened.

It's almost funny, how quickly the situation spirals out of control from there. And what really kills her? Sam doesn't even try to put up a fight. He just sits there and takes it and lets the truth spill out.

All of their hard work, down the drain.

For a long moment, she just feels frozen. Nobody speaks, as Sam stalks out the door, and she can't quiet the noise in her head long enough to tell herself to move.

"Quinn—" Mr. Schuester starts, and she just…  _no._

" _Not_ now," she barks. She stands up, gives all of them the most acidic glare she can muster, and runs out after him.

Sam's already rounding the corner by the time she gets out into the hallway; as she chases him down the hall, her phone chimes with the first of what she assumes will be many text messages.

"Sam—Sam, stop, wait up."

He doesn't say a word, but whips around, lightning-fast, fist slamming hard into the nearest row of lockers. She flinches at the sound.

" _Fuck!_ "

She's never seen him like this.

"Sam?" she whispers, inching closer to him, and he startles.

"Shit, Quinn, I—sorry. Sorry. Shit, I'm so sorry," he babbles. (Only Sam would try to  _apologize for scaring her_ at a time like this.) "I'm just—I don't—"

"You should put ice on that," she murmurs.

"I should—what?" he asks, and then looks at his hand as if he's seeing it for the first time. "I… shit.  _Shit,_ that hurts. God."

"What do you need?"

He sighs, defeat written all over his features. "Can you please just take me home?"

Her phone starts vibrating in her pocket; she ignores it. "Of course."

* * *

She loses count of the number of times her phone goes off on the drive back to the motel; it's the only thing that breaks the quiet in the car.

"They're going to ask questions," she says softly, pulling into an empty parking space. He doesn't respond. He doesn't move. "Sam. How much should I tell them?"

"Doesn't matter. Secret's out, right? Tell them whatever you want."

What she  _wants_ is to tell them to mind their own fucking business, but her being cagey about it now, when everything's supposed to be out in the open, will only make them suspicious again. "Sam…"

"I just want to be alone for a little while, okay? Thanks for the ride."

Some best friend she turned out to be.

She checks her phone—three missed calls, seven texts. The only one she bothers to open is Kurt's, which simply says  **SOS**.

She doesn't owe them anything, but she  _does_ owe Kurt. The least she can do is rescue him from the lion's den.

* * *

When she gets back to school, everyone's still in the same basic position as when they left.

"Kurt's told us the basics, but he said… he said you'd know more," Finn says, not making eye contact. Good. Let him feel guilty. He should.

"Since when is it your problem?" she snaps, unable to stop herself. Mr. Schue gives her a disappointed look.

"Glee club is a family, Quinn. We take care of each other."

"Then where were you two months ago?"

"Where were  _you_?" Rachel asks quietly, from her chair. Quinn whips around. "How did you even get involved in this?"

"I…" Quinn stops, and takes a deep breath. "I was just in the right place at the right time."

"Then stop holding it against us that we weren't," Tina says. It's still a shock, sometimes, when she asserts herself—Quinn's too blindsided by it to find an argument. "We're all just thrown for a loop by this, right now. And now we want to do the right thing."

Santana stares resolutely at the floor, studying the patterns in the tile. Quinn hopes she feels guiltiest of all.

"I can't believe they're living in a  _motel_ ," Puck mutters, looking at his hands. "That shit's messed up."

"It's not just that," Kurt sighs. "It's…"

"Everything," Quinn finishes, seeing his helpless look. "Everything's gone. He gave up his phone—"

"… Dude told me he lost it," Mike murmurs.

"—he sold his comic books, he hocked his guitar—"

Mercedes sucks in a breath. "He what?"

Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose. "We sold it to Jacob Ben Israel. That's why he got suspicious of us in the first place; that's how we ended up in the Muckraker."

"Does Jacob still have it now?" Finn asks. He looks like he's working out a difficult equation in his head.

"I don't know; probably?"

"Okay. So. Okay. Everyone, pay up," Finn says, switching into leader mode. "We're gonna—we're gonna buy it back for him."

Quinn sighs. "Finn, that won't—"

"No, Finn's right," Mr. Schuester says, talking over her. "We've always turned to music in order to express ourselves and get through hard times in this club. We can't let Sam walk away from that."

"Does anyone have a hat or something?" Finn asks, looking at the group. Brittany wordlessly takes off the kitty-eared beanie she has on her head and passes it to him. He digs around in his pocket, takes out a wad of cash, and dumps it in. "Everyone. Come on."

It's equal parts gratifying and infuriating, watching them all donate to the cause when this has been her life for months, now.

"Oh, no, Quinn—" Rachel says when the hat reaches her, "don't. You've already done so much."

She's pretty sure Rachel means that in a nice way, but it feels like an accusation all the same.

* * *

" _The Sky People have sent us a message… that they can take whatever they want. That no one can stop them. Well, we will send_ _ **them**_ _a message. You ride…_ "

Okay, fine, so maybe she's watching Avatar.

She's supposed to be doing her homework, but all she could think about was Sam—replaying everything that happened in her head, wondering if she could have prevented it. It may not be productive, but dwelling upon how  _legitimately terrible_ this movie is at least distracts her from that.

(She actually liked Star Wars and Back to the Future, in a nostalgic, kitschy kind of way. This is just… Pocahontas in space, without the music.)

"Quinnie? Phone!" Her mother calls from downstairs.

"Who is it?"

"It's an unlisted number."

Quinn frowns as she gets up and walks into the hallway towards the upstairs extension. There are only a few people she can think of who'd call and ask for her from an unlisted number, and she really doesn't think she has the energy to talk to any of them right now.

"Hello?"

"Quinn?"

"…Sam? Where are you calling from?"

"Pay phone. Sorry to call your house, but, uh, I don't have your cell number memorized, so I had to look you up in the phone book."

"It's fine, but—Sam, are you… crying?"

"They bought back my guitar. Finn and Rachel, or all of glee club, or—God, I don't know. Did you—" he chokes for a second, and she squeezes her eyes shut. "Quinn, did you do this?"

"They wouldn't leave me alone until I told them what they wanted to hear," she whispers in apology.

" _No,_ that's not—Jesus, Quinn." He sniffles, and she can practically hear him pulling himself together. "I  _know_ you. And if you make some stupid comment about how, like, you're the evil bitch who sold my guitar and Rachel's the perfect angel who bought it back for me, I'll freaking—I'll—I don't even know, but it'll just suck, okay? I'm trying to say thank you."

And it occurs to her that it's a bit twisted, that he called her in tears and now he's the one cheering  _her_ up. She has to stop being so afraid of him judging her; for whatever reason, he just isn't going to, and it's not doing either of them any good to pretend that's not the case. "You See me," she breathes.

"I… did you just say what I think you said?"

"That's a thing, right? In Avatar? People… when you understand someone, you say you—"

"Yeah! I…" The laughter he trails off into is weak, but it's there. "I can't believe you remember that. So… look. I was thinking about Rumours. Um, the album, I mean, not the… and anyway, I know that you already sang with Finn, and that you didn't want him to sing with Rachel, and I don't want to make shit worse, but Don't Stop would probably sound awesome as a duet and I just thought…" He trails off, and she fills in the blanks.

"You're asking me to sing with you?"

"It's for Stevie and Stacey. You don't have to if you don't want to."

She rolls her eyes, even though he can't see her, because—really?

"I'll be over in ten minutes."

* * *

It's a relentlessly optimistic song. Like, nauseatingly so.

For once, Quinn kind of doesn't mind.


End file.
